Revolutions
by Twist
Summary: FINISHED Stoneface Vimes overthrew King Lorenzo, and was killed shortly thereafter, giving rise to a long line of Morporkian Patricians. But what if Vimes had lived? Join the readers who rave this journey down the Other Trouser Leg is "pretty ok!"
1. Chapter 1

Revolutions (Part One, Chapter One)

By: Twist

Disclaimer: Everybody belongs to Terry Pratchett. The author is in no way affiliated with, nor has ever met, Mr. Pratchett. She claims no ownership of any of the major characters. She has no money. Don't sue.

Format notes: The footnotes in the text are after the segment containing them. Double squiggly lines indicate a new character segment.

Author's Notes: I have, as seems to be my unfortunate destiny, started another fanfic. In some way I may actually finish this and pass most of my finals. Maybe. Anyway, thanks a whole lot to my beta, samvimes, who was magnificent. Wonderful. Extremely helpful. Add any other praise you may desire.

Chapter One

'Suffer Not Injustice' Vimes was known by many names. He was the Commander of the Watch in the pre-patrician era and was known among the Watchmen as 'Stoneface' Vimes. Among the citizens he was 'Suffer Not Injustice' Vimes. After the beheading of King Lorenzo, Ankh-Morpork's last king to modern times, he was the leader of Vimes's Ironheads. In that universe, he lost power of the city after six months, was hung, and buried in five graves.

But we all know about the Trousers of Time. In one universe, one that sprung off of the accepted one at a critical moment, 'Stoneface' Vimes, leader of the Ironheads, was also known as something else. 

All hail King Vimes, of Ankh and Morpork.

~~

Lorenzo the Kind, as he would later be known in certain universes, was not a kind man. He was short and fat, with a general look of unpleasantness about him. His rosy jowls quivered at their own discretion and his thick, curly black hair was greasy and matted. His beard, made of the same hair though slightly more wiry, contained the crumbs and drippings of meals recent and long past. Not surprisingly, he didn't have a wife.

His habits were even more repulsive than his appearance. He enjoyed the company of young virgins; an idea acquired while in Klatch, a desert region across the Circle Sea where the heathens were too busy fighting one another to get anything accomplished. What he did with the young virgins was quite unknown to anyone, though they tended not to be seen again, at least under the same name. He also enjoyed torturing the unfortunate victims who had committed small crimes. Petty theft, disobeying curfew and carrying a concealed weapon* were all one-way tickets to the torture chamber.

The King was in his dungeon now, watching a young man be stuck with red hot pokers. The man was apparently guilty of causing a domestic dispute. Right now, he was begging to resolve _any_ sort of domestic dispute in the city. Lorenzo watched the man press himself against the wall and writhe as he was poked continuously. His pleas fell on overly large and deaf ears.

Lorenzo enjoyed watching his prisoners get tortured, which was the truly sickening part of it. He saw it as some form of daily entertainment. Once a day, perhaps twice, he would descend to the dungeons of Ankh-Morpork's Winter Palace and observe the lawful torture of a convict. But convicts were growing short these days, Lorenzo observed. He would have to start rationing them out or something of the sort. He was concerned. Surely the crime in the twin cities had not decreased that much?

It was on this matter that the King found himself in the Throne Room at four o'clock in the afternoon. He was meeting with his Commander of the Watch, Commander 'Suffer Not Injustice' Vimes. Lorenzo despised Vimes with every bloated molecule in his body. The man was concerned with the right of the working man and of the treatment of criminals, something that no one prior to Vimes in the post had had the courage to approach. But Vimes was bold, oh yes, and he wanted something for the people. He wanted royalty to pay them some respect -- he wanted them to have a better life, and Lorenzo was not going to bow to that wish.

In Lorenzo's own private and rather warped world, royalty was royalty and peasants were peasants. The peasants respected the royalty, because if the royalty were the people making sure everything happened all right. The royalty made sure that there was food for the peasants to eat and that the criminals were off the street and important things like that.

In Lorenzo's world royalty _did not_ respect peasants. Peasants were the people who did the work and the heavy lifting and that was not something to be respected. Anyone could be a peasant; but it took gifts of the gods to make a man royalty.

~

*You wouldn't have to /use/ the weapon, of course. Just having it pointed to a criminal mind.

~~

It was noon. The Commander of the Ankh-Morpork city watch was sitting in his office, doing paperwork. He rarely did paperwork. But he was doing it now; in order to keep his mind off of a much more unpleasant endeavor. Today he would have to go to the Palace and meet with the King; something he rarely did but disliked intensely. Doubtless Lorenzo would be curious as to the reason the numbers of convicts was descending. He would want to know what was happening to his playthings.

Vimes did not want to explain that. Lately he had given the Watch instructions to let little crimes go with nothing more than a warning, which was good enough for most people. This had been a problem for some of the more zealous young watchmen, but it had been sorted out and now the number of repeated crimes was decreasing at, to Lorenzo and his cronies, an alarming rate. Of course, the alarming thing to them was that Vimes and his men were allowing the crimes to be repeated.

The hours seemed to fly past as Vimes mechanically signed all of the worthy papers on his desk, all the while formulating the perfect way to tell the King that the decrease in prisoners was because word had gotten out about Lorenzo torturing his victims.* Perhaps that would fool the King and kill two birds with one stone, figuratively speaking.

At about a quarter after three in the afternoon, a knock came at his door. The Commander growled a brief 'Enter' and the door squeaked open to admit the Captain of the Day Watch, Niccolo Indeja. Indeja was short and dark-skinned, presumed to be from some country on the Vieux River where they ran through the streets being chased by bulls. He was as close to Vimes as any of the Watchmen, and followed the Commander with a fierce loyalty. Vimes usually discouraged such blind faith in any other watchmen, but Indeja had been a special case. Vimes didn't know why. "Would you like company to the Palace today, sir?" 

The Commander signed his name fiercely with the mention of the word 'Palace'.

"I believe I'd like you to wait outside, Captain Indeja," Vimes replied, after some thought. There was another silence, in which a document was read and disposed of in the wastebasket.

"Are you feeling alright, Commander?" 

Vimes sighed and ran his fingers through the thin brown hair on his head. At the age of 35, it was already streaked with gray around the temples.

"You know how I feel about Lorenzo, Niccolo."

"Yes, Commander." Vimes stared hard at the Captain, in a way which suggested he wasn't really looking at the Captain at all – rather, some inner vision. He pushed down the brim of his helmet to the desk and twirled the whole helmet around the finger, a habit that always emerged when the Commander was deep in thought. Finally, he rose, put the helmet on his head***, and grabbed Indeja by the shoulder, leading him from the office.

"But I do believe, my good man, that I have a plan." There was a certain ice in those words. Niccolo winced slightly and followed his Commander.

~

*The threat of torture looming over one's head tends to be a deterrent. Ask any High School student.

***Like Commander Samuel Vimes, who existed in some future, Stoneface Vimes had a deep hatred of plumes. This presented a problem, because all officer helmets had plumes. After Vimes had been established as Commander, citizens could identify officers in the Watch by the decrepit purple bits of feathers sticking out of the sharp tops of their helmets.

~~

Vimes' blood began to boil almost as soon as he entered the throne room. Lorenzo was sitting in the golden throne of Ankh, surrounded by an entourage of young children. It was said that Lorenzo loved children, and to a casual observer it would have not been able to be denied. But Vimes paid careful attention to the nine to twelve year olds surrounding the King and he could see fear in their eyes. Fear and confusion. And if there is one thing that follows through the Vimes bloodline in every universe, it is the desire to help the afraid and confused.

"Good afternoon, your Highness," Vimes said formally, stooping low in a bow. "I see you have once again called the children out on official business." Lorenzo gave Vimes a haughty glare. Vimes glared back.

"You know how much I treasure my dear children, Commander." He looked at the circle of faces surrounding him. "I would never dream of keeping the children away for any amount of time." A small girl at the back looked as if she was about to cry. "Besides, I hope the business on which you have been called, Commander, does not have much importance."

"That is certainly to be hoped, Highness," Vimes said, averting his gaze and fixing it on a point about six inches above and left of the King's ear.

"I have noticed a serious decrease in my prisoners, Commander. I hope you aren't spreading rumors of any sort." Vimes thought, in the privacy of his own head 'Why should I spread rumors? People see the mangled bodies being carted down the streets.'

"No, sir. I merely arrest citizens when a crime is committed. All of my men are instructed to do the same."

"Are you able to explain this decrease in prisoners, Commander?"

"Yes, your highness." Vimes took a deep gulp and plunged on, with the trepidation of a man about to do The Right Thing, but most probably going to die because of it. "Some of the citizens have seen the corpses of the prisoners, highness, and rumor spreads quickly."

The color in Lorenzo's face turned from the normal pasty gray to an angry red in a matter of seconds. He rose from his throne, wobbled on his feet slightly to get his balance, and clenched his fists. "We do not cart the bodies through the main streets, Commander." The children behind the king shrunk back. Lorenzo descended the stairs, approaching the Commander of the Watch. Vimes didn't flinch. "The bodies of the prisoners are not even disposed of in public cemeteries."

Standing face to face, the two men were brilliant in contrast. One was fat and soft, while the other was lean, with every inch of fat replaced by sinew*. The sun had darkened the Commander's skin, and the king's was pasty with too many years under elaborate roofs and curtains. "It only takes on person to start a rumor, your highness." Lorenzo purpled with rage. It was good Vimes continued staring at the wall, because if he hadn't, he surely would have doubled over with laughter at the sight of the king, who at this point resembled a purple soulcake marshmallow duck.

"I want every person charged of any petty crime in the books admitted to the prison!" Lorenzo roared, spraying the Commander with spittle. "Forget the fines, Commander. Leave them all to me. We shall see who is at the bottom of this." Lorenzo attempted to collect himself and failed. "You may go, Commander. Now." He turned on his heel and waddled back toward his throne.

"I'm not sure if that would be a good idea, your highness. Any number of petty, fined crimes are committed every day. The cells would be full by lunchtime." Lorenzo did not turn. The children, who could see his face, were getting looks of horror on their faces.

"I want them all in the cells, Commander."

"Yes, your highness." Vimes bowed and left the room, praying, for once, to any god that might be listening, that Lorenzo would not hurt those children.

~

*There was a statistic by the Omnians - who believed the world to be round - that said you could fit over a million suns into the world. One of the children, who was an Omnian and a brilliant mathematician, was quickly figuring how many Vimeses you could fit in a Lorenzo.

~~

Captain Indeja was waiting outside the Palace, watching the street life of Broad Way go about its daily business. If he looked to his left, he could see a storm rolling in from across the plains. It didn't look to be an overly large storm, so he wasn't worried. What was more, he was Day Watch, which meant he could go to his flat and keep warm and dry for the night.

When the Commander of the Watch emerged from the Palace, he was obviously extremely deep in thought. Indeja fell into the Policeman's step beside him and watched his Commander with a mild look of concern. As they passed the gate, the Commander gave good, hard look at the guards on either side of the wooden door.

Indeja was more than mildly worried when the arrived back at the Watch House. The Commander had not said a word the whole time, and had been observing with furious scrutiny every alley and side street they had passed. Even for a watchman this was odd, especially when the aforementioned watchman is a seasoned and ranked member of the force. "Is everything alright, sir?" Indeja asked after a while, when his Commander had been seated at his desk.

"No, Captain." Indeja waited for further explanation, and when he saw none forthcoming, began to leave. "Captain, how dedicated are you to the Watch?" With his hand on the doorknob, and distant thunder in his ears, the question put a stop to any thought processes that had been going at the moment. He turned, slowly.

"It's my job," he said, after some thought.

"And nothing more than that?"

"Is anything able to be more than that?"

"Hmf." Vimes leaned back in the chair and stared out of the window, spinning the helmet slowly. Indeja could see some pretty serious thoughts swimming behind his Commander's eyes. "Do you serve the law, Indeja, or Lorenzo?" The question was posed with much thought. Indeja almost felt bad for the simple answer he offered forth.

"Lorenzo has warped the law. I serve the city, sir."

"Hmf." Vimes continued to spin the helmet, slowly. The sensual noise the copper brim made on the varnished wood began to ring in the Captain's ears. "Lorenzo has, figuratively speaking, raped this city, Captain."

"Yes, sir." Vimes turned to look at the Captain, searching for any trace of dishonesty in the small man's eyes. He found none.

"Is this how most of the watchmen feel, Niccolo?"

"Yes, sir. Most of the citizens too. You do have your pockets of loyalists, but there aren't many these days." Indeja paused for a moment, and then continued. "I don't understand how he hasn't been overthrown yet, sir. Genua just hanged their king." That seemed to do it for the Commander.

"I want all the Watchmen in the King's Head as soon as possible, Indeja. Both night and day watches. We might, possibly, have a king to overthrow."

~~

The Palace guards were standing outside of the gates, tall, proud and at perfect attention, despite the drizzle. Citizens could see a storm brewing, and were beginning to duck into their houses. The rain started to pour when the guards caught sight of the mob.

Moving up Broad Way was a mass of breastplates, badges and lances. Behind them, a group of citizens were advancing as well, men and women pouring out of houses when they realized the purpose. Pitchforks and old pikes were dripping with rain. At the head of the mob was Commander Stoneface Vimes, City Watch, and Captain Niccolo Indeja, Day Watch. Water was pouring off of the Commander's brown leather overcoat. One of the guards called for the Palace regiment.

Black and gray clouds were bunching on the horizon, the thunder was low and rumbling, and the mass of wet leather and rusted copper and soaked wood was still coming. The houses on either side of Broad Way almost seemed to hunch down over the mob. Halfway down Broad Way, to the gate guards' tremendous relief, the mob stopped. Lorenzo had appeared on the front balcony of the Palace. "What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed, over the growls of the storm.

"Freedom for Ankh-Morpork!" yelled a sergeant from behind the Commander. The man's name was Sergeant Donnelson. He was a tall, broad, black man from Genua who was much better than the Commander or the Captain at projecting his voice. "Step down now, Lorenzo, for your own sake!" A clanking from just around the side of the Palace was beginning to funnel down Broad Way.

"Says who, may I ask!" Lorenzo had turned the fetching purple color at this point, though whether this was from yelling or rage was unclear. Vimes still wasn't looking, though. The Palace regiment had begun to march down Broad Way. The rain soaked the purple plumes on their heads, and the sound of wet leather sandals hitting the cobbles added to the symphony of the rain pattering off of slate roofs and clinking onto the copper helmets of watchmen and the iron pots the citizens had put on their heads.

"The Ironheads!" Donnelson roared. The regiment drew closer and closer, until all Vimes could see was the haughty expression on the face of their General. When Vimes could see every bubbles of air forming in the foam of the General's horse's mouth, he drew his sword. It was a signal. It was The Signal. "Charge!" The Sergeant howled. With a cry that raised every hair on the necks of the soldiers and sent the horse of their leader backing into a panicked rear, the watchmen and citizens ran forward. Leather and skin and water pounded the cobbles.

The two masses met and immediately tried to spread out. The city streets provided little accommodation for this, and thus the press of bodies behind the men actually doing the fighting was such that the front lines were essentially crushing each other to death. People began to fight on top of other people. Stoneface Vimes, who was in the middle of the fray, was hauling on the bit of the general's horse and trying to knock the general off with the flat of his sword. The general, who had a much thinner and showier sword, was blocking every move Vimes attempted. Seeing no other options, Vimes hacked the man's left foot off. The general screamed and fell to the ground, causing the already panicked animal to let out the closest thing anyone in the fray had heard to a roar and whirled in a circle, hindquarters tucked under its own body. Vimes, having what he had been fighting for, grabbed the mane and the saddle horn and swung himself on.

Things from a higher view were different. They were spinning, for one, and the only solid thing holding Stoneface up in the air was an animal half mad with panic and dancing a rather complicated four-step. But also from on the horse, Vimes could see his men were winning. They weren't organized and they knew how to fight dirty, and that was more than anyone could say for the soldiers. Damn the Marquis of Fantallier.

Some of the watchmen and citizens had managed to crawl over the fighting lines and were taking on the Palace guards, who had reinforced the back. Strangely enough, some of the reinforcements had literally stabbed their comrades in the back and ripped the plumes from their helmets, joining in the fray on the side of the watchmen. The rain was mixing with blood to create the watery sort of red dye that was flowing over the cobbles. Vimes blinked some of the water out of his eyes, and looked at the Palace. Lorenzo couldn't move or think very fast, but he wasn't stupid and at this point had probably realized that the only way to get out of this alive was to escape. He would be heading for the back exit.

Vimes spurred the horse through the mass of soldiers and watchmen. When clear of the central mass of the fight he dug his heels into the animals sides. It roared again and shot forward. Vimes had enough riding sense to lean forward and grab the mane of the animal. His left leg was sliding on the saddle; the left side flap was slick with the blood of the General. The horse bounded up the stone stairs of the Palace and right up to the oak doors, where it shoved its haunches underneath itself and slid to a halt, rearing before impact. Stoneface swung himself off the animal and let it gallop off toward the racehorse stables, where it could smell others of its species. Vimes pushed open one door and walked calmly forward into the Palace, dripping flecks of sweat, foam and, mud and blood on the floor, as well as creating a trail of water behind himself.

~~

Lorenzo the Kind was running through the back halls of the Palace, insofar as the term running could be applied. The revolution outside was growing in pitch and fervor, as more and more citizens joined the fray. In an attempt to make a hasty escape, Lorenzo had fled the upper floors of the Palace, and was trying desperately to remember where the back door was.

The general had gone down off of his horse, Lorenzo had been told. That meant that Vimes was in charge of this. Vimes knew to take out a leader, as that was the mens' weak point. The king stopped short at a fork in the passage, looked both ways, and fled down the left passage. A very dark, ominous presence was following him.

~~

King Lorenzo the Kind was apprehended by Commander Stoneface Vimes of the City Watch shortly after the battle began. The following day, a cold frosty morning in late Ember, Stoneface Vimes beheaded the King with a battle axe in front of the populace of Ankh and Morpork.

~~

The people cheered as the King's head fell into the wicker basket. A sort of party then commenced, proving that Ankh-Morpork is always a party waiting to happen.* The Amazing Party of Ankh-Morpork was also easily adaptable; it could turn into whatever sort was convenient to current events. At the moment, it was raiding party/beer fest. 

Vimes looked at the bloodied axe and at the man beside him, Captain Indeja. Indeja wasn't looking very well, at the moment, as he had been on the wrong end of someone's sword the previous day. However, the watchmen recruited the closest thing they could to a doctor and had him treat the wounded. Indeja's wound was not deep, and he would survive. 

"So that's that, I suppose," Vimes said softly, looking at the blood-soaked wicker of the basket and the shocked look on the former face of the former King.

"What are you going to do about the cities, sir? What sort of leadership will you be planning?" Indeja's eyes glinted at this. Vimes had always suspected a small thirst for power in the man, and if not power -- then Indeja was extremely attracted to politics, for some odd reason.

"What would you suggest, Captain?" Vimes laid the bloody axe on the platform and began to descend the steps into the party. The Captain limped along beside him.

"Well, all precedents suggest that you install yourself as King, sir."

"King?" Vimes thought this over, staring off into some middle-distance as the two beat the familiar track to the Watch House. "I'm not sure I like the idea of another King, Captain."

"There could of course, sir, be another office created. However, it is highly recommended, Commander, that you lead the city into the future."

"Lead the city into the future . . ." Vimes thought this over one more time and scowled. "You're not pulling my leg or anything, are you? They're really going to want me to lead them?" 

Indeja looked pained, if not from his wound than from his superior's neglect of classical study.

"Sir, in every story myth and faerie tale the leader of the people's rebellion leads the city or town or what have you into the future." Vimes stopped short in front of the Watch House door and stared ferociously into middle distance, thinking furiously. Indeja, realizing the Vimes' mind was probably not in this particular time period at the moment, leaned against the wall to the Watch House and watched the distant festivities.

"Put out word," Vimes said finally and suddenly, "that there is to be a coronation tomorrow, and that all nobles under Lorenzo are to be out of the city by midnight. No exceptions." With those words he stormed into the Watch House and up to the Commander's Office.

Niccolo Indeja grinned in a way that would have been best described as "Slightly Sinister", turned around and limped off to find Donnelson.

~~

Niccolo Indeja existed in every universe up to the point of the rebellion. In the common universe, however, the revolution turned out quite differently for Captain Indeja. In the universe where the Ironheads were overthrown, Niccolo Indeja was killed.

~~

*Or a mob waiting to happen. It is sometimes very hard to tell the difference.


	2. Chapter 2

Revolutions (Part One, Chapter Two)

By: Twist

A/n: Many thanks to samvimes again, for all the help. Apologies for the short chapter, but think of it as "tension building". *evil grin*

Chapter Two

The frost of the early morning had melted and the Ember storms had once again rolled in from the Sto Plains. Due to the torrential downpour, the party celebrating the king's downfall* had been dispersed and many residents of the twin cities were at home fondling their new possessions.

The city was without a ruler, at the moment. Of course, everyone knew the dashing Watch Commander** would assume the position of King, but for the time the city was lawless***. It was indeed a pity that carrying heavy valuables is so much trickier in the rain.

The water pounded the street, and anyone who was unfortunate enough to be caught under its drops. Granted, there weren't many people who hadn't ducked into a covered 

alley or something of the sort, but shuffling quickly down Upper Broadway towards the Hubwards Gate was an unfortunate party of three. Upon closer inspection, it was actually revealed to be a party of four, as screaming and crying in one of the party's arms was an infant.

These were all that was left of the royal line of Ankh-Morpork. Stoneface Vimes had found them shortly after he had found Lorenzo and had spared them, he couldn't see much purpose in killing two nurses, a butler and an infant child. He had, however, exiled them; seeing the threat in the child's lines. The baby was the illegitimate child of King Lorenzo and one of his mistresses. The mistresses had all been killed by the Palace guards following the beginning of the fighting, for fear that they would talk and tarnish the good king's reputation.

Not even five minutes after Vimes had apprehended Lorenzo and handed him over to the Watchmen who had since stormed the Palace, the nurses and the butler had been found, trying to steal the baby out of the Palace. Vimes had looked long and hard at the baby, curled up and terrified in the wailing nurse's arms. The butler had pleaded and pleaded for Vimes to spare the child. There had not been a hint of emotion on the Commander's face, not a flicker to show what he was thinking. He merely stood there, covered in blood, water, sweat and foam, staring at the infant. Finally, having made a seemingly emotionless decision, he issued softly that the infant, the nurses and the butler would be allowed to live, but they would have to leave the city by midnight. If they didn't, they would die.

The nurses had quickly packed what little supplies the party could carry and would need; a small supply of clothes and food. The baby had been wrapped in the warmest robes and clothes the nurses had been able to find, and they had fled into the rainy night.

The little baby girl's screams trailed off into a soft mewling as the party passed through the gate. The plan, while being a very simple one, was to get out of Ankh-Morpork. The child was in danger there, as were the adults.

What the group didn't know as they tramped through the dark on the dirt – now mud – path was that their descendants, as well as the descendants of the royal line, were doomed to wander through the country in the Ramtops making money where they could. Right now, the only thing on their minds was the dark forest closing eerily in on either side of them.

~~

*Or the opening of the Palace to looters.

**When someone has just taken over your city and is about to rule you and your loved ones, that person is dashing and handsome. Their warts are suddenly not an issue.

***Officially lawless, anyway.

~~

The bag was ripped open from the top and into it was shoved a bundle of clothing. There was no method to it – simply panicked packing. The person shoving things into the bag was a young woman with dark hair and light skin. Her belly was rounded with the signs of an early pregnancy. As she began to shove in necessities – soap, brushes, that sort of thing- a young man burst into the room, toting a sack full of, from the look of it, foods and water skins. He gave his young wife a wide-eyed look and stopped for a moment, breathing heavily.

"Are you almost ready?" he asked, brushing his brown hair out of aquamarine eyes. "It's half past eleven."

The woman closed the bag with a snap and gave her husband a tearful look. "What would our parents say? What have we done?"

"It's alright," he said, rubbing the small of her back as she passed through the door, walking very quickly* toward the back door. The rain pounded on the roof of the mansion. "My family owns some land in Llamedos; we'll go there."

She turned back to look at her husband, dangerously close to sobbing, and then glared at her swollen belly. "I hate hormones," she snapped, and ran out the back door through the rain to the stables.

As her husband bridled a panicked stallion – their best; it was a jet-black thoroughbred colt – she hurriedly fastened the two bags to the saddle. When she had finished he threw the saddle onto the animal - which was at this point dancing in its box with the whites of its eyes showing - fastened the cinch and swung himself up. With the animal half-rearing in the stable – flecks of foam already forming around the bit – he hoisted his young wife up. When he was sure his bride had seated herself firmly in the leather he threw the reins forward and the animal flew out of the stable into the storm.

As her husband steered the mad animal towards the Desoil Gate, Katerina Vetinari clung to his waist and prayed to any deity that might be listening to a pursued young noble that Llamedos would offer a suitable retreat.

~~

*It would be out of her social class to run.

End, Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

Revolutions (Part One, Chapter Three)  
  
Author's Note: School's out! Haven't received my fourth quarter and final grades yet so . . . yes, I am nervous. :/ Anyway, thanks again to my loverly beta-reader, samvimes. I owe you my spelling, grammar, and the readers' sanity. *low bow*  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Stoneface Vimes looked around the throne room and twirled the crown on one finger. He was scowling. He was usually scowling.  
  
"So what do I do as king, Indeja?" he asked. Niccolo looked up from picking distastefully at the outfit he'd had to wear for the coronation.  
  
"You just . . . rule, sir. Read documents, listen to complaints . . . organize things." Indeja looked slightly embarrassed. "I have read many classics about how the king took the throne of the evil king, but they never really say anything about what happened after that. Very single- minded, classical authors were."  
  
Vimes stared at the wall for a long time. "Where would the official documents be kept? If there are any?"  
  
"Er . . . we don't know, sir. We killed all the secretaries." Niccolo watched the Commander-turned-king for several seconds, his face open and honest with concern until a carefully posed question appeared to spill forth from his tongue. "Permission to change into watch armor, your highness?"  
  
"Hmm?" Vimes was startled from his thoughts. "Oh, yes, I suppose. You may go off patrol early, Captain, if you'd like." Indeja bowed deeply and limped from the room.  
  
Out in the hall, with the door quite surely shut behind him, Niccolo Indeja glanced around the hall in quite a shifty-eyed way. His shoulders began to slouch down out of their high military bearing and the truthful and willing expression drained from his face, leaving a rather sour expression in its place. As he began to limp off down the hall, the limp briefly showed signs of becoming a walk, but in no more than two steps became a full-fledged stalk; all the while his eyes were glancing around the halls of the Palace.  
  
As he left the Palace, no one took notice of the sinister-looking Watchman clad in purple. Niccolo was fine with that; he merely wanted to get home.  
  
Sometimes the Captain enjoyed going home the long way and stroll alongside the river, watching the birds swoop down and land gracefully in the semi- clear water and then be horribly and unpleasantly surprised*, but tonight was not a night for a leisurely walk. He took the short way home; Filigree Street, Welcome Soap, Cable Street, the Whore Pits and then some narrow winding paths that only qualified as roads because there were houses one either side of them. Somewhere in the middle of it all was the entrance to his place of residence, 14 Fast Luck Alley.  
  
He fumbled in the pockets of his purple tunic for the keys to the door, keeping perfectly silent the whole time. He opened the door to the flat and shut it behind him.  
  
A match flared in the darkness. Indeja flattened himself against the door, froze, and stared in the direction of the flame.  
  
"It's nice to see the power-hungry bastard that left his brother to scrounge in the dust," said a voice from the match's direction. A candle was lit and the face became clear. The person speaking was dark-skinned with the same eyes as those the surprised Captain possessed. The mystery man's face was unshaven and haggard, obviously undernourished.  
  
"Vettori," Niccolo breathed softly upon realizing whom he was talking to. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Sorting out a few differences," Vettori Indeja said in that personable tone that makes the person being spoken to wonder how long they have left to live. "How is the Watch? King Vimes doing alright, is he?" Vettori set the candle on the table by the bed.  
  
"He's fine," Niccolo snapped. "What do you want?" The small Captain found himself slammed against the door. The handle was digging into his wound.  
  
"I want to know what you think you're doing, Niccolo," Vettori snarled. "Do you know what has happened to me because of your little revolution?" He pressed his brother's shoulders against the door harder. Niccolo winced and shook his head. "I had a job, Niccolo. I was working for the de Nobbses. I was making money. I had food."  
  
Niccolo decided that the correct response under the current circumstances was not 'that's good', and decided that it was best to keep still. His side was starting to bleed.  
  
"When your Commander sent them out of the city, Niccolo," Vettori snarled, "I lost my job. I am not going back to the streets." He leaned closer to his brother and growled. "What were you at?"  
  
"He can't do it," Niccolo gasped, trying to twist away from the handle. "He doesn't know how. I was going to help him . . ." He stopped, mainly because saying anything else would be too painful.  
  
"The power behind the throne, sort of thing?" Vettori asked with a sneer. "That hardly seems like you, Niccolo . . ." Vettori watched his brother gulp for air and loosened his grip on the watchman. "Where does he work?"  
  
"What are you going to -" Niccolo stopped, mainly because Vettori had shoved the handle into his wound. He gulped a few more breaths and waited for the pain to die down. "He's in the Palace, some office on the fifth floor. Oblong Office, I think." He gasped with relief as Vettori's face turned to that of cold satisfaction and his brother moved him away from the door handle.  
  
"You're doing good, Niccolo," Vettori assured him. The older brother laid his gasping sibling on the bed and left.  
  
As the blood-soaked door closed behind his brother, Niccolo looked as much as he could to his left, where the candle was still burning on the table. There was a pen and some scraps of paper, too. He really ought to write this down.  
  
Moving slowly, partly out of weakness from blood loss and partly out of caution for his wound, Niccolo slid to the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pen, dipped the nib in the ink, and wrote 'Vettori' on a scrap of paper that also contained his sister's new address. Then, with a small sigh, his eyes rolled back into his skull and he died.  
  
~~  
  
*Though at this point in history the Ankh was not the lovely yellow sludge of Samuel Vimes' time, it was well on its way to getting there. The silt was strong enough to restrain dangerous criminals, in a pinch.  
  
~~  
  
"Your highness!" A nervous-looking watchman leaned into the Oblong Office, barely opening the door. "I am terribly sorry to interrupt -"  
  
"No trouble," Vimes growled. He was in a filthy mood. Being King, he had realized shortly after he had begun on the paperwork, was not quite as easy as he had thought.  
  
"Er, your highness," the watchman stopped short and looked at the floor. "There's been a watchman killed," he said finally. His voice had hardly been above a whisper. Vimes looked up sharply.  
  
"A watchman killed? Has there been a riot?"  
  
The watchman shifted nervously. "No highness." He swallowed. "It looks like a murder, your highness."  
  
"Which watchman," Vimes said softly, dangerously. He watched the other watchman swallow and mutter a short prayer.  
  
"Captain Niccolo Indeja, your highness."  
  
Vimes froze. His face did not betray the fact that his stomach had just dropped to his knees and all of his internal organs had followed. His face did not betray the fact that he was suddenly very confused. His face did not betray his rage. He drew a breath, slowly and calmly.  
  
"I know where he lives. Do not alert the men there that I will be arriving shortly. Simply tell them to leave everything exactly as it was when the body was discovered." The watchman nodded and left. Vimes waited a full count of twenty before he ran out of the office to put on his uniform.  
  
~~  
  
"And how did you become alerted to the situation?"  
  
The sergeant licked his lips nervously and looked into the dead, emotionless face of the king. Of course, in this uniform he was Commander Vimes, but he was also the king. And everyone knew Indeja had been his favorite.  
  
"Landlady saw a strange man exiting his room, highness. Didn't hear anything for about a half an hour. When she went up to give him dinner she found him like this." The sergeant gestured to the room behind him.  
  
It was small, and a perfect square. There was a washbasin in one corner of the room with no mirror above it. There was a table. The table had a burned- down candle on it and a few scraps of paper. Next to the table was the bed. On the bed was Captain Indeja.  
  
Vimes looked at the corpse of his former Captain with an emotionless and scrutinizing eye. Indeja's mouth was slightly open and some anonymous watchman had closed his eyes out of respect. The purple tunic he was wearing was soaked in blood, the wound central to the bleeding. The bed was soaked through the mattress with blood. The former Captain's left hand was dangling limply over the side of the bed. His fingers were still closed, and another scrap of paper was sticking out of his fist.  
  
"See what that is. We may have a clue," Vimes ordered the sergeant. While the sergeant knelt next to the corpse and worked on prying the paper out of his fist, Vimes turned to observe the door.  
  
The handle and the plain wood of the room-facing side were soaked with blood. The blood was concentrated most at the edge of the handle. It wasn't hard to see what had happened. Someone had attacked Indeja just after he'd gotten home, shoved the Captain's wound against the door handle and held him against the door for a while. Maybe the attacker's arms had gotten tired from suspending the watchman and when he was sure the Captain was too weak to do anything he'd laid the man on the bed and left him to bleed to death.  
  
The only question was; did Captain Indeja have enough strength left to write it down?  
  
"Here it is, highness," the Sergeant said as he straightened up. "Says 'Vettori'. That's the one with the blood all over it, anyway." The Sergeant gave the paper and then the king a puzzled look. "Might be something written in that language of his, highness?"  
  
"Perhaps." Vimes turned and began to leave the room. "You now have my permission to take the room apart, Sergeant. Contact his family about the corpse. I believe that is his sister's address on the paper." He paused for a moment, gloved hand reaching for the bloody door handle. "Ask her if she knows a Vettori," he said finally.  
  
When King Vimes left, he had a solid plan of action. He was going to find out who this Vettori was and hunt him down. Failing the fact that Vettori was a person, he would have the word translated. The watch would not rest until Captain Indeja's murderer was killed.  
  
End, Chapter 3 


	4. Chapter 4

Revolutions (Part One, Chapter Four)  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Vettori Indeja hunched down over his drink in the King's Head. He glanced around at the other tables and hunched further down, making an attempt at being inconspicuous. It had been four days since he'd paid a visit to his brother. Watchmen were everywhere in the city, sweeping through the streets and pulling anyone aside who looked like they might be from somewhere along the Vieux River. They weren't being very nice about it, either.  
  
The beer in Vettori's mug sloshed slightly as he drank it. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a movement and looked over the green froth of his mug to the hooded figure that had just seated itself next to him. Vettori gave the figure an acknowledging nod and continued to turn the mug in his hands.  
  
The figure across the table from Vettori ordered a smoky liquid and the two men drank in silence as more shadowed figures joined them at their table. The bartender looked up at the crowd in his establishment. Damn revolutionaries would have to start finding new meeting places soon.  
  
"The pieces are in place," Vettori said to his drink. "The King -" he said the word in the same tone as someone might have said 'the giant, flesh- eating worm' "- is occupied with the death of my poor, dear brother. I want the troops in motion by dawn tomorrow. We'll have a hanging by noon."  
  
"We should not underestimate the king," said the first hooded figure to his boots. "He is not a stupid man. Not like Lorenzo."  
  
"He will fall," Vettori said definitively. He took a deep drink out of his mug. "There is to be no hesitation, no doubt. We shall bring back the nobles. /They/ shall rule."  
  
There were a few silent moments in which the door opened and the person presumably decided the place was too crowded and left. Vettori never looked up. The bartender took the opportunity of rest and scuttled over to the tables of revolutionaries. "Chap over at the bar offered to buy you all a round," he said unsurely. Vettori looked up sharply.  
  
"Which one?"  
  
The bartender turned with Vettori to look at the four patrons at the bar. Their minds boggled when they tried to look at them.  
  
"Er . . . the one that's . . . big? Red hair? Big beard?" Vettori and the bartender squinted hard at the four figures.  
  
"The one next to the short one? On the end?" Vettori and the bartenders' brains grabbed onto the one fact that they could understand.  
  
"Yeah, one on the left."  
  
Vettori's eyes narrowed and he made an attempt at scrutinizing the offending patron. His brain sent up a help flare. Vettori suddenly became aware of a flaming headache. He nodded at the bartender and made a point of not looking at the four patrons for the rest of the time he spent in the tavern.  
  
As the revolutionaries left, steeling themselves for the next days' tasks, the patron who purchased the drinks turned to his companion next to him. "Don't you love revolutions?"  
  
Pestilence muttered noncommittally into his beer and continued drinking.  
  
~~  
  
*The bartender had said it was beer, anyway. There was no proof it wasn't Ankh silt.  
  
~~  
  
Sergeant Sergeant was patrolling the whore pits. He hated Shades duty, on the basis that there were too many taverns tempting him to duck in for just a moment and have a quick drink.  
  
He had tried, once, to trace back through the years of alcoholism and to find the time where he had begun to drink heavily. As far as he could tell, it was around the time he joined the Watch. It is not easy to be in the Watch when your last name is Sergeant*.  
  
Sergeant had always put his hasty promotion to Sergeant rank down to a bit of dirty humor on the Commander's part.  
  
He was almost fifty years old now and still got Shades duty. They usually pulled you out of the Shades after you turned forty.  
  
Perhaps it was Sgt. Sergeant's anger at being in the Shades, his grief that Indeja - who had at one time been annoying, but was now the grieved Commanding officer - or merely the fact that he was an alcoholic, but something drove Sergeant into the King's Head.  
  
He was not a particularly bright man, but there was always that trace of the true Coppers' Instinct in him. It flared into being the moment he opened the door. Perhaps it was the Instinct rearing its long-absent head, but later Sergeant would say it was the thirty or so hooded faces that turned to him and glared at his badge the minute he opened the door.  
  
/Revolutionaries/, he thought. Oh /gods/ he was too old for this.  
  
"Can see you're busy, sorry," he mumbled at the nearest hooded figure and closed the door.  
  
Out of shock, Sergeant patrolled on his beat for about ten more minutes. When he was absolutely sure he wasn't being followed, he ran for the Palace.  
  
~~  
  
*His mother had been very fond of a dog that passed away around the time of Sergeant's birth, and out of desperation declared that the dog's spirit was living on in her child. She named the poor infant after the dog.  
  
~~  
  
King Vimes was reading documents when the knock came at his door; he looked up from the proposal for a Guild of Plumbers. Stoneface was a copper in kings clothing, and recognized the knock as that of a knock belonging to someone in a hurry. He wondered if he ought to make the knocker wait.  
  
"Enter," he said finally. The door opened and a panicked-looking sergeant stepped into the room and bowed.  
  
"Your highness," he said, rising from the bow. "I have gained access to revolutionary intelligence, your grace." Unsure of what to do, Sergeant saluted as well.  
  
"Revolutionary, you said?" Vimes laid the document aside and leaned forward. "You are Sergeant Sergeant of the Night Watch?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"How did you gain this information, Sergeant?" Vimes laid down the pen he had been holding as well, and stared intently at the Sergeant in front of him.  
  
"Er . . ." Sergeant tried to decide quickly whether Vimes would see his shirking duty as a worse offence than a large number of revolutionary elements meeting and planning the King's demise. "I nipped into the King's Head for a drink, your grace," he said quickly. "There were a bunch of people in there, sir - maybe 30 - all in black. There's more sir." Sergeant didn't know for a fact that there were more than 30, but he figured the more Revolutionary elements there were, the less trouble he'd be in for shirking duty.  
  
"Did you hear what they were planning?" Vimes asked. Sergeant shifted nervously.  
  
"Not really, sir." He swallowed. "They looked at me threateningly, sir."  
  
"Could they not have been members of the Guild of Thieves, Sergeant? I'm sure you're aware of the underground movements of that Guild." Vimes picked the document back up. "You may leave, Sergeant." Sergeant Sergeant set his jaw, turned and left. He had already made plans to find some sort of drinking establishment. Outside the door, however, the Corporal on guard stopped him.  
  
"Really revolutionaries, Sarge?"  
  
"Could be the Thieves Guild," the Sergeant snarled. "I must have been silly to think there wasn't another group of people who would wear black and hate coppers."  
  
The Corporal nodded nervously. "I still believe you, Sarge."  
  
Sergeant Sergeant gave the Corporal an impassionate look. "Good luck to you in ever getting promoted, then." The Corporal watched the Sergeant stamp down the hall.  
  
~~  
  
In the leg of the Trousers where Vimes was overthrown, the watchman guarding the door was not an impressionable young corporal, but a Captain who knew the Sergeant was a drunk.  
  
In that universe, the Captain hadn't told anyone about what he had heard in the Oblong Office.  
  
In this particular universe, the Corporal /did/ tell people. He told all of the other watchmen he knew. In the universe where Vimes was overthrown, he was overthrown because half of the Watch had not camped out in the Palace.  
  
End, Chapter 4  
  
A/n: Many thanks to my betas samvimes and Mercator. Without those two I'd be lost, I'm sure. Also, for your entertainment is a shameless plug!  
  
Like what you read? Want to read more? Maybe even get a sneak peek? Go to www.livejournal.com/users/plottwist13! 


	5. Chapter 5

Revolutions (Part One, Chapter Five)  
  
Vettori Indeja groaned when he hit the cobbles. It was surprising that he had enough wind left in him to groan, after what had just happened to him. His men picked him up and carried him solemnly to the wooden table. The frayed remnants of a noose hung on his neck and swung gently in the breeze.  
  
King Stoneface Vimes stood by the table where Vettori had been deposited. The doctor by his side felt along the rebel's throat and nodded silently. He took a breath and spoke to the king. "His esophagus has been bruised beyond repair, your highness. It is doubtful that he will survive until late afternoon."  
  
Vimes looked down at the man on the table. He wondered if suffocation due to your own swollen esophagus was a fit enough death for the man who had killed Niccolo. A fit enough death for the man who had killed so many more watchmen.  
  
The battle had been brutal, but the watchmen had fought like demons out of hell. The rebels had surged toward the palace and had nearly got there but had found themselves no match for the fierce watchmen. The streets of Ankh- Morpork had once again run with blood. Vimes' face was icily neutral at the memory.  
  
"You may quarter him when you see fit," Vimes said softly to the watchman on his right.  
  
The watchman, a thin old desk sergeant that had been chosen for his lack of squeamishness and his notorious malicious streak, drew his sword and neatly began to cut Vettori in half.  
  
Vimes watched the man try to scream and subsequently begin to suffocate as the blood ran and pooled at the king's feet. When the sergeant reached Vettori's spinal cord, the revolutionary's legs went limp and his attempts at screaming became more intense.  
  
He was dead shortly after the sergeant had finished his cut across. He had already sentenced himself to death by screaming - he would never be able to recover the air he'd lost through such a severely damaged windpipe. When Vettori had begun to cough up blood Vimes knew he was to be dead momentarily. The sergeant finished the job with neat precision and laid the bloody sword next to the dead man on the table.  
  
Vimes wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword and, with a vicious swing that was nowhere near the sergeant's careful line work, severed the dead man's head. The sharpened blade of the sword buried itself in the table. Vimes grabbed the head by the hair.  
  
The whole ceremony had been done behind the same gallows that Lorenzo had been hanged upon and Vettori recently drawn from. Vimes climbed the gallows stairs, Vettori's head in hand, and faced the city. Anxious faces peered up at him. Without a word, he held up the head of the rebel.  
  
An enormous cheer went up through the crowd. Vimes let it live its course and beckoned Sergeant Donnelson onto the stage. The tall black man stood next to the king and prepared himself to recite the speech that Vimes had written for him.  
  
"Ankh-Morpork!" he shouted. "Today you have seen justice served. Today you have seen the wrongs of these rebels righted. Today you have seen the deaths of many fine watchmen avenged." He paused.  
  
"While their lives will never be replaced, or our debts to them repaid, we can justify their sacrifice. Thanks to their efforts, and the efforts of some of our fine citizens, we have brought down the rebels and the man who led them in an attempt to overthrow our king."  
  
A cry of "Long live the King!" went up through the crowd.  
  
"May this be a lesson to anyone who thinks of threatening the house of Vimes!"  
  
The sergeant took the head from the king and held it high in the air. A deafening roar answered the gesture. Vimes and Donnelson bowed and retreated down the steps.  
  
"Morporkians do like their street entertainment," Sergeant Sergeant muttered when the cheer went up. He was at the bottom of the gallows stairs, leaning against a support and having a cigarette. He watched as the king came down the stairs and looked around the sea of watchmen. Sergeant suddenly felt very small when his highness's eyes stopped on him and the king began to approach. He snuffed out his smoke and stood at attention.  
  
"You are Sergeant Sergeant, am I correct?" the king asked. If sergeant had not been so worried, he may have noticed the king seemed slightly more amiable than usual.  
  
"Yes, your highness." Sergeant nervously glanced out at the crowd.  
  
"I do believe you are entitled to some sort of a reward. Or an honor, if you prefer." Vimes paused and peered at the small sergeant. "What /is/ your last name, out of curiosity?"  
  
"Erm, Nobbs, my lord."  
  
A screech interrupted whatever the king was going to say next.  
  
Out of the crowd came a short, dark-haired woman - obviously very drunk - who grabbed the unfortunate Sergeant's neck and greeted him.  
  
"Hello, Sargey!"  
  
"This is my sister," Sergeant muttered lamely to the king. "Her name's Maise."  
  
"Oer, hello your highness. Lovely day for a quartering, isn't it?" Maise grinned at the king, her hair spilling down her back and other bits spilling out of her dress, Vimes noticed.  
  
"Hello, Maise," Vimes said. "To what do I owe the pleasure of meeting you?" He was hastily taking in every pleasure Maise had to offer, Sergeant noticed, scowling. The sergeant could see that Vimes and Maise were in their own little world.  
  
"Well, highness, I came over to see if Sargey here would like to partake in some of the free drinking provided by that nice man over there." She gestured in the general direction of the crowd. "Our Sargey does love his drink." She jostled her brother and some of her own bits and the king smiled.  
  
"Perhaps you would be more entertained back at the Palace, Maise. I do believe that is where the watchmen are celebrating."  
  
"Oh, that would be lovely!" she exclaimed, bobbing down and taking Sergeant with her. He was the only one who disapproved of her cleavage-displaying actions.  
  
"It would, of course, be in bad form for me not to offer such a charming lady as yourself a ride," Vimes said with a bow.  
  
"Oh, how kind," she said with a drunken giggle. "Perhaps you would like a word with my brother; I'll show myself to the carriage, your highness." They watched her swagger off towards the carriage, Vimes with a bemused grin on his face and Sergeant with a deep scowl.  
  
"She's a card, isn't she?" Vimes asked the sergeant. They watched her maneuver into the carriage.  
  
"Oh yes, she's a joker." Sergeant couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic.  
  
"I wonder where she gets her looks from." Sergeant's scowl deepened as the king grinned and walked off toward the carriage.  
  
"I suppose I'll walk then," he called after the king but mainly at his sister. He watched the two of them shut the carriage door and rattle off towards the Palace. When he could no longer see the purple livery, he stalked off into the crowd to have a drink.  
  
~  
  
The wedding was a small one, considering. The Nobbs family was there, Maise's mother sobbing hysterically and Sergeant patting her uncomfortably on the shoulder. The rest of the Temple of the Small Gods was taken up by watchmen and assorted citizens who'd ducked in out of the cold to see the king get married.  
  
His Highness, the King of Ankh-Morpork Commander Vimes was wearing the noblest watch uniform he could find. It had a shiny breastplate, but also a very functional short sword and a noticeable lack of tights, plumes, or gilt. Maise was wearing a very long, very purple dress. She had insisted on it.  
  
The priest was young and therefore extremely nervous. He stuttered through the ceremony with only the occasional panicked whimper.*  
  
Only afterwards would Sergeant feel pity for the man, upon the discovery that this was the priest's first wedding ceremony ever and marrying royalty is a big responsibility.  
  
The reception party went off, of course, without a hitch.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," King Vimes said, standing. He had chosen the moment strategically. He wanted to make sure there were no drunken interruptions. "I will not take up your drinking time -" there were several cheers "- with a petty speech. I would simply like to thank the Watch for all they have done in the past year. I shall also swear that the Vimes line shall rule until there is one more fit. And until then, Ankh-Morpork will be stable." He nodded at the assembled crowd and sat.  
  
Several small cheers followed. "He's not very good at speeches, is he?" Donnelson whispered to Sergeant as the applause died down.  
  
"Apparently not," Sergeant replied. He glowered at his drink.  
  
"So how does it feel to be an Earl, Sarge?" Donnelson asked, watching the celebrations with an amused eye.  
  
Sergeant didn't reply. In all truth, he was not at all happy about the appointment. He would have much rather been a sergeant in the Watch, going out patrolling. In his eyes, even Shades duty was better than having to go to posh balls and what have you.  
  
Donnelson saw the look on Sergeant's face and wisely made nothing of the issue. "So what does he mean when he says 'The Vimes line will rule until there is one more fit'? Isn't that whole 'rule forever' thing part of being king?"  
  
Sergeant thought about it. Certainly it was out of character for any king to admit that one day his line would be overthrown. But then he considered what Vimes had just done and shrugged. "When you overthrow an older line, you kind of realize kings don't last forever."  
  
"Sounds like old Stoneface," Donnelson said with a shrug. "Probably realizes that some ancestor of some nobles will come back and seek revenge." Donnelson looked at the worried face of the new Earl of Ankh and allowed himself a wide grin. Ivory teeth flashed in the relative dark of the room. "Still, no worries, eh?" He raised his mug to a toast. Sergeant reluctantly clunked mugs with the sergeant.  
  
"Long live the King," he muttered.  
  
~  
  
And long did the King live. Stoneface Vimes lived to be eighty-seven years of age, and fathered fourteen children. Earl of Ankh, Sergeant de Nobbs eventually did marry and was the father of two children.  
  
Eventually, all of the attendants to the Vimes wedding died out and no one was left to remember the odd words of the King's marriage speech. No citizens, anyway. The Vimes line was a solid, dependable live of kings, and no one questioned them. But all of the Vimes children knew that their ancestor had left the key to a line alive - a line of kings that belonged on the throne and would overtake theirs when the time was right.  
  
~~  
  
*Sergeant thought the king was being very tolerant.  
  
A/n: Thanks once again to my wonderful betas: Mercator and Sam.  
*applauds* You are wonderful people. Thanks to the readers for tolerating  
this so far! This is, sadly, the end of part one. We must wave goodbye to  
all of these characters. Next chapter is the only chapter in part two. So  
yay . . . I guess. Whatever. Read and review, you wonderful people, you. 


	6. Chapter 6

Revolutions (Part Two, Chapter Six)  
  
Very little changed with the passage of three hundred years. Birds still flew, fish still swam and the Vimes line still ruled Ankh-Morpork.  
  
One thing that had changed was the political state of the city. Under the Vimes reign it had been taken from being an unorganized heap of filth to a finely-tuned military machine. It specialized in mercenaries and weapons production. No country wanted to be enemies with Ankh-Morpork.  
  
The Watch had been further bred into something approaching the impressive army of the city. All officers had served in the army for the required two years and following that had been trained in the delicate arts of riot control and Breaking up Arguments between Neighbors. And even though the were a rigorously trained and drilled as the crack army regiments, the locals still liked them; they possessed a certain laid-back quality that had not only served them well in the army, but also in the Watch.  
  
Their commander, the King Reginald Vimes III possessed this quality in enormous amounts. There were very few people in the city that didn't like him. Sadly, one of these people was his wife.  
  
"You'll never touch me again!" she howled, twisting her fists in the bed sheets.  
  
"Yes, dear," the King said dutifully. He leaned over to the steward next to him. "Better fetch some more brandy, Mervyn." The steward nodded and hurried off to the kitchens.  
  
Queen Marietta Vimes had been in labor for about eight hours now. The king had been wandering in and out of the room at regular intervals, in order to better check on her progress. The midwife had assured him it wouldn't be very long now.  
  
"Here he is, the little chap," the midwife said, excited. "Just one more push, dearie . . ."  
  
Vimes watched as his wife's face crinkled in pain, grunted, and gave birth to his second child. Mervyn arrived just in time to see it pop out, dropped the brandy, and passed out on the floor.  
  
"It's a girl, your highness," the midwife said kindly. She held the baby aloft so that the parents could better see it.  
  
It looked like, Vimes thought, every other baby. Red, angry, crinkly and not altogether-human. "She's beautiful," he said.  
  
"You'll not be touching her," his wife said tiredly. She looked at the baby as the midwife placed it in her arms. "Hello, darling." Showing affection that she rarely showed her husband, she brushed some of the baby's head fuzz aside and began to nurse it.  
  
A scream interrupted the tender moment.  
  
"That'll be your son," the queen sighed. "Go see what he wants."  
  
The king sighed, shrugged to the midwife and walked out of the room, being careful to step over Mervyn. He walked down the residence hall of the Palace and arrived at a wooden door. There was an awful lot of screaming going on from behind it.  
  
When the king opened the door his two-year-old son merely gave him a look of extreme displeasure. "Wanna biscuit," Samuel Vimes said stubbornly, sticking out his chin.  
  
"Your mother says you'll rot your teeth." The king sat down in the armchair in the corner of his room. His son was looking more and more like his wife everyday; thin, wiry, brown hair, brown eyes. He sighed and shrugged. "Can't help it, boy."  
  
"Biscuit now."  
  
"You have a little sister now," the king said absently, thinking about the red little girl. "Have to set a good example."  
  
"Wanna biscuit!"  
  
The king regarded his firstborn for a moment. With a sigh and a small grin, he produced a sugar cookie from a pocket. "I suppose your teeth'll just fall out anyway."  
  
*  
  
The dark-haired woman looked happy, if a little tired. She had just given birth to her first and what she foresaw as only child. It was a little boy.  
  
He hadn't screamed much. Certainly there had been some of the obligatory baby screaming shortly after birth, but when her husband had started to bathe him he'd stopped screaming and had stared around the room in puzzlement. Now he was sleeping quietly on his mother's stomach, wrapped in blankets.  
  
"He's a healthy-looking boy," the woman's husband said proudly, his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Be good later when we want to move the cattle."  
  
"There are greater things in store for him," the woman said. She was a witch and had taken a quick peek into her son's future. Couldn't hurt. "He'll leave early."  
  
"Have to hire some help then." The husband scratched his chin, glancing at the baby. "What're we going to name him?"  
  
"Something ancestral?" his wife suggested. She yawned widely; she was very tired after the 20-odd hour labor.  
  
"You have the history," he husband said with a shrug. "What was your grandfather's name?"  
  
"Irving." There was a moment of staring at the child and then an unspoken decision that that name would not be it. "My great-grandfather's name was Havelock," she suggested.  
  
"Can't give a boy that name," the husband said gruffly. "It would be cruel." He looked up from his child and into his wife's eyes. The steely look he found there suggested that he'd said the wrong thing. "Havelock it is, then," he said nervously.  
  
His wife sighed happily and fell asleep, Havelock in her arms. Her husband watched the two of them for a moment. The he got up, put his coat on, and stomped out into the Llamedos rain; babies got born and horses needed feeding.  
  
"Don't know what kind of a name Havelock Vetinari is. Nothing great about that, it's just a mouthful," he mumbled. The rain poured on.  
  
~  
  
A/n: And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes part two. Coming soon: Cowboy!Havelock, Angsty!Vimes and a widdle baby Carrot . . . :D 


	7. Chapter 7

Introduction thing: This is just a note to say the following: Lots of people have become sticklers for characterization. This is okay. I don't mind. But I ask you to bear in mind that this is AU, and therefore the characters are a little different. Still recognizable, yes, but different.  
  
Thank you, and enjoy. *bows*  
  
*  
  
Revolutions (Part Three, Chapter Seven)  
  
*  
  
The rain drizzled down from grey skies. It drizzled down on the hills, the stones, the cattle. It drizzled down on the rancher and his horse. Well, presumably it was rancher; one couldn't really tell at first glance, seeing as he was hunched inside an oilskin coat and hiding under a leather cowboy hat.  
  
"Bloody stupid, sending the beef out to graze in the rain," the rancher muttered to his horse, who snorted in agreement. "They knew full well I was going to be the one to go and bring them back." The rancher kicked his horse slightly and straightened up.  
  
His name was Havelock Vetinari. He was young, maybe about twenty. Medium- length dark hair framed a thin, pale face. Piercing blue eyes surveyed the landscape around him. He whistled sharply and the cows raised their stupid bovine heads for a moment before lowering them again and continuing to graze. The rancher swore softly.  
  
As he and his horse trotted off to the back of herd, the rain started to come down harder.  
  
*  
  
Havelock's father watched out the window as his boy managed to herd the cattle into the barn. Thunder rumbled gently in the distance. A few minutes later, Havelock re-emerged from the barn and sprinted toward the house. He blew in the front door with about two gallons of rain. The boy's father returned the cold blue glare he received with a smile and a pleasant nod.  
  
"It's pissing down out there," he said conversationally.  
  
"How kind of you to notice," his son said icily.  
  
"Your mother and I have been meaning to talk to you about something," the older man said, in the same light tone.  
  
"Could I dry off first?"  
  
"Won't do you any good." Havelock's father observed the boy's wary look before gesturing to a chair. "Take a seat."  
  
"Where's mum?" Havelock asked carefully, trying not to drip too much. It wasn't working. He didn't sit.  
  
"In our room, sobbing her eyes out. Listen boy, we've been talking about your future." He watched his son's face for any sort of reply, but found none. "We don't think you were really meant to be a rancher."  
  
"No?" Havelock asked, completely monotone. His face betrayed no emotions.  
  
"Well no," his father said slowly. "We all know you're bright; you can read better than most people around here. You ranch fine boy, it's just that . . ." his father trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. He gave his son an apologetic look. "We don't want to force you to leave, mind. Stay if you want. But your mother and I thought maybe you'd be happier in a city or something."  
  
Havelock nodded slowly. "Perhaps," he said cautiously.  
  
"Your mother packed some saddlebags with most of your clothes," Havelock's father said lamely, gesturing to the leather packs that had so far been semi-hidden behind a chair. "You can take the chestnut mare; she doesn't much like anyone else anyway."  
  
Havelock looked around the room for a moment. Then he picked up the saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder. He looked at his father. "Alright," he said with a shrug. Then he grinned a little.  
  
"You'll be fine, boy," his father said, returning the small grin. He patted his son on the shoulder. "Just write us every once and a while, let us know you're alive, alright? Your mother'll worry something awful."  
  
"Gotcha," Havelock said easily. He grinned once more before casting a worried glance at the door to his parent's bedroom. "Make sure mum knows I'll try not to get killed, alright?"  
  
His father chuckled a little before patting his son on the back once more. Havelock grinned again and stepped out of the house.  
  
His mother came into the room a few minutes after Havelock had left. She joined her husband at the window to watch the soaked rump of the mare retreat down the road.  
  
"He's going to love it there, you know," she said, sniffling. "We'll never hear from him again. He's going to die."  
  
"No, he's a smart boy," her husband said, rubbing her on the shoulder. "He'll manage just fine." He watched as the horse turned the corner onto the mountain road and toward the city. "I have a feeling that we haven't heard the last of Havelock Vetinari."  
  
His wife grinned through her tears. Her husband embraced her and they stood that way for awhile, the rain pounding the window in front of them.  
  
*  
  
Prince Samuel Vimes was staring out a window on the eighth floor of the Palace. He was eighteen today. He should have been happier, he knew, but it was hard.  
  
His father had died a little over a year ago. His mother had taken the throne as rightful Queen of Ankh-Morpork immediately afterwards. This had made a lot of people unhappy at the time; the Queen was not known for her kindness.  
  
Sam certainly knew this, and though he apparently looked just like his mother had at his age – with the thin, upturned nose, thick blonde hair and angular face – she ignored him just as much as she had his father. Sam's little sister dying had only made it worse; she went mad with delusions of what a perfect child the girl had been. Sam had been nine at the time, and therefore too young to really understand what was happening.  
  
Now he was eighteen, though, with a mother who's days most certainly were numbered and a future as monarch staring him in the face. He had been meeting with advisors and viziers and all other sorts of people who tended to hang out around monarchs. They'd been slowly feeding him information about the city, statistics and figures and such.  
  
Vimes sighed. He didn't want to be king, not really. The only part of the job that sounded slightly more interesting than sitting around and waving was the title of Commander of the Watch. Sam liked the Watch; they didn't have to wave like idiots and they got to patrol the city without bodyguards. They were much more laid back than the Palace Guard, which technically was an extension of the Watch but was really where the arrogant 'too-good-for-the-Watch-too-cowardly-for-the-military' fellows went.  
  
Vimes watched as the grey clouds in the distance started to gather. From here he could see the rain wasn't falling far from the city gates. He was glad it was going to rain, as it matched his foul mood. And anyway, maybe all the people wouldn't be able to make it to the posh ball his mother was holding in honor of his birthday.  
  
"Not likely," he said, more or less to himself.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Sam turned around to see one of the many butlers standing behind him, warily watching him. "Her highness instructs that you probably ought to prepare for the ball, sir," he said nervously.  
  
"Alright," Sam said. "And you people can call me Sam, how many times do I have to tell you?" he muttered as he passed.  
  
*  
  
A group of traveling players, known as the Royals, was wandering through the dark forests of Überwald. Among the group of dark-clothed, solemn-faced actors was a young boy. He was holding an older man's hand, and looking fearfully around with big blue eyes.  
  
"Where are we, Papa?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly. The man holding his hand, presumably his father, shushed him.  
  
The little boy's name was Earl, and he was five. He had blue eyes, a shock of red hair, and was surprisingly big for his age. And even young Earl, who usually trusted everyone and rarely feared anything, was quite nervous.  
  
A stick cracked from somewhere in the trees. Earl's father released the boy's hand and, that quickly, had drawn a long sword. The troupe bunched closer together and the rest of the men pulled out swords. Earl huddled into the middle of the crowd.  
  
Young Earl didn't really understand what was going on when the scary men emerged from the trees. All he would remember later would be the pretty gold dog that snatched his shirt in its jaws and carried him away. He would remember crying for his Papa, and being confused. But he wouldn't remember the way the blood pooled in the road when his family was slaughtered, he wouldn't remember the way the thieves stole the money off the dead bodies, and he wouldn't remember the carefree way they went about it.  
  
One of the things that would stick out in his memory was the naked woman.  
  
"Shush, honey," she said softly. Earl's eyes grew wide and he stopped crying. This woman had come out from the cave where the dog had gone in. Perhaps she was magic? Earl looked up at her in wonder. She grinned.  
  
"You must be terrified," she said softly. She sat down in the snow next to him and put her arm around his small shoulders. He leaned into the hug; it was warm, safe. "My name's Delphine," she said gently, brushing some of the long red hair out of his eyes. "That name's a little long, though; is Angua better?"  
  
Earl nodded and smiled a little. She seemed nice. She even laughed a little when he smiled at her.  
  
"What's you name?" she asked him.  
  
"Earl," he said sheepishly.  
  
"Do you like your name, Earl?"  
  
Her question puzzled him a little. No one had really asked him that before. He thought about it for a minute, his tiny forehead creasing. "No," he answered finally. She laughed again.  
  
"Well, what would you like us to call you?" She watched the little boy shrug. "Let me see," she said kindly. She tousled his hair. "You have orange hair, like a carrot. Should we call you Carrot?"  
  
Earl giggled shyly. "I like that name. I like carrots."  
  
"Well," Angua said happily, "it would seem that that matter has been settled. Now let's go back and I'll introduce you to my friends."  
  
"Where's Papa?" Carrot asked – blue eyes wide. Angua smiled sadly and ruffled the little boy's hair again.  
  
"You're going to live with my friends and me for a little while," she said softly. "Until you see your Papa again." She watched the little boy think this over and smile slowly. She stood up and offered her hand.  
  
"Okay," Carrot said. And they walked off into the forest, rain pattering on the leaves of the trees.  
  
*  
  
A/n: And the real story begins! Dun dun dun . . . Thanks again to my wonderful beta reader, Mercator, and to all who read and review. Chapters should come closer together now, but no promises; it's still a WIP. :D Much love to you all. 


	8. Chapter 8

Revolutions (Part Three, Chapter Eight)  
  
By: Twist  
  
*  
  
Havelock Vetinari was not entirely sure of what to do, which in and of itself was an entirely new feeling and even more confusing. He had managed to live his entire life without being questioned and just going about his business and now here was someone who wanted to know, apparently, everything about him down to the exact date and time of his birth.  
  
"Where did you say you were from again, boy?" the watchman by the gate asked. He tapped his clipboard impatiently with his pencil. "Hurry up now, I don't have all day."  
  
"Llamedos?" Havelock said, thoroughly puzzled. "Rains all the time, known for its stone circles, see the beautiful cattle herds . . ." he added, in case the man might have seen some of the cheaply printed tourist brochures.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," the watchman snapped. "And what is your business here?"  
  
Havelock sat back in his saddle, one eyebrow raised, mouth open slightly. "To get a job?" he said finally. This answer seemed to satisfy the watchman, who waved him through. Extremely confused and somewhat irritated, Havelock kicked his horse through the gate.  
  
*  
  
Prince Samuel Vimes was pacing. He'd been pacing for the past three hours or so. Occasionally he would pause anxiously and stare at the heavy wood door that was barring him from his future.  
  
Swearing slightly under his breath in a variety of languages, he strode down the hall to the next room. Once inside, he practically tiptoed to the wall adjacent to the room in which quite a significant event was occurring. He pressed his ear to the wall and listened as best he could.  
  
There was surprisingly little noise. Of course there was the cursory muttering, an occasional feminine wail or a moan, but in between these sounds there was hardly anything. Too jittery to listen any more, he walked over to the room's solitary window and stared out of it, watching Ankh- Morpork move on below.  
  
Vendors peddled their wares and shouted at passers-by. Carters led unenthusiastic livestock through the crowds. People bustled about from one place to another. Beggars begged. /And any one of them . . ./ he thought before stopping himself short. He was still troubled by something the Grand Vizier had said earlier that day.  
  
"Anyone can plan a revolution," the old coot had hooted, waving his arms and grinning. "Look at you ancestry, boy! It doesn't take money or brains or brawn to overthrow a king. All it takes it a little bit of cleverness."  
  
Sam shuddered. He didn't want a revolution. It wasn't the ousting him from power that bothered him as much as the fact that the current monarch tended to be assassinated. That was what he disliked most of all. That anyone could take an axe and just . . .  
  
"Sir?" The young woman's voice startled Sam out of his morbid train of thought. He whirled to face her, grabbing the windowsill in the process. The young nurse looked flustered, as well as terribly sorry.  
  
"Your highness," she said cautiously. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry . . ." she trailed off, hoping he would get the gist of what she was trying to say. "She died peacefully," she finished lamely.  
  
Sam nodded. "Thank you . . . Uh, I'm sorry, I haven't caught your name."  
  
"Sybil. Sybil Ramkin."  
  
"Thank you, Sybil," he said solemnly. He nodded again and waited for her to leave. He turned to look out the window again. When he was absolutely sure he wasn't being watched, he sighed.  
  
"That was /way/ more than the old baggage deserved," he muttered. And he grinned as he looked over /his/ city.  
  
All hail King Samuel Vimes IV, of Ankh-Morpork.  
  
*  
  
"All Hail King Vimes!"  
  
Havelock's horse spooked slightly when the tidal wave of noise came roaring through the alley. One hand instinctively weaving itself into the mane, he patted the mare with the other. She snorted and pranced a little, but otherwise remained calm.  
  
"What is going on?" he wondered aloud, though quietly. While fascinating, the city had set him back a little. Nothing seemed to happen slowly.  
  
"You from around here?" a rather kindly voice asked. He looked down. Looking up at him was an enormous hat. His horse apparently saw it for the first time as well, and jumped sideways, snorting and prancing.  
  
"No," he said warily, patting the mare, who had frozen in place, ears pricked, nostrils flared, ready to run.  
  
"Didn't think so," the hat said. "Rarely do you see such a 'andsome young man on 'orseback 'round 'ere 'nless 'e's a noble, and sure ain't dressed noble. Are you in need of a place t'stay?"  
  
"Ye-es," he answered slowly. "But I don't have a lot of money."  
  
"'Ave a job?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Planning on getting one?"  
  
"Yes . . ." Havelock jerked sharply on the reins of his horse; she had taken to dancing around in an equine version of the stick and bucket dance.  
  
The hat engaged in what might have been a thoughtful pause. Then there came the sound of lips smacking and a satisfactory grunt. Havelock had the feeling he had just passed some sort of test.  
  
"You can 'ave a room at my place for the next week so long as you 'ave a job by the end of it. After that you pay rent, or you and your nag are out in the cold," the hat said authoritatively.  
  
"Okay?" Havelock said, slightly insulted that the hat had referred to his mare as a nag. "What's your name?"  
  
"Mrs. Cake and you'll do well not to forget it. Follow along, boy; it's not hard to get to. And your nag can sleep with the cows."  
  
*  
  
A/n: Oooh, our boy's in AM now. Next chapter things get exciting. Thanks again to my wonderful beta, Mercator, and to all the lovely readers and reviewers. Next chapter hopefully soon, ladies and gents! 


	9. Chapter 9

Revolutions (Part Three, Chapter Nine)  
  
By: Twist  
  
A/n: Muchas gracias again to Mercator, my wonderful beta. Without her, this wouldn't be half as good. :P And today, because ff.n is being stupid, a star is the same thing as this: -  
  
Disclaimer: I got nothin'.

-  
  
The day dawned grey and cloudy. King Sam slouched back in the golden throne of Ankh, annoyed with the previous ambassador's requests. He'd wanted mercenaries and while Sam was not averse to loaning out his men if only to get them to experience real battle, he was uncomfortable with the topic of the war; that is, he was uncomfortable with the fact that there was no apparent topic. And anyway, it wouldn't make the men particularly happy had they been sent off to some podunk country on the far side of Überwald.  
  
He sighed as the Grand Vizier climbed the stairs toward the throne. His name was Lupine Wonse- and he was probably about Vimes' age. He had been installed as Grand Vizier after the previous one had died – somewhere around three years ago, which would have been seven years after Vimes had been coronated – and had attacked the job with neurotic efficiency. There were times when he frightened the young king.  
  
"What will his Highness's decision be, sire?" Wonse asked, pencil at the ready. He looked apprehensively at his employer.  
  
Sam scratched his smooth-shaven chin for a moment before replying. His eyes were neutral and his voice was a heavy monotone. "Ankh-Morpork regrets the fact that it is unable to step in and aid the nation of Borogravia in its time of need, however should arms be needed we will provide them for a nominal fee."  
  
"Very good, sir," Wonse said, nodding and snapping his notebook shut. "An excellent answer, your highness. Shall I summon the next appointment?"  
  
"Who is it?" Sam asked, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. Say what you will about gold, it's no better than wood as far as seating goes.  
  
"The Head Captain of the Watch, sir."  
  
"Really?" Vimes' eyes visibly brightened and he sat forward slightly. "Send him in, then."  
  
Vimes had to work to control his excitement when dealing with the Watch; in contrast to all of the other things he had to deal with it was infinitely less boring. Had his only job in ruling been to command the Watch he would have thrown himself completely into the job. As it was, he had to listen to four uptight ambassadors before he was able to listen to the reports of Watch activity and criminal movements in the city.  
  
The Head Captain entered the room and marched forward, coming to a textbook halt and saluting in such a way as to make any drill sergeant proud. His face was set in an impassive expression. His helmet was tucked under his left arm. His armor gleamed.  
  
Vimes glanced away from him and to the other occupants of the room. Coming to a split-second decision, he waved a hand. "Leave us," he commanded. "This business will be dealt with in privacy."  
  
Obedient to his orders, the other occupants of the room left. When the door had closed behind the last of them, Vimes rose and lightly descended the stairs.  
  
"Terribly uptight bunch, I'm afraid," he said conversationally to the Head Captain, who had at this point slouched out of his perfect posture and was offering the king a lopsided grin. "Can't abide them." He grinned at the captain. "What's been happening Keel? I want everything."  
  
The former sergeant shrugged and bit his lip. "Nothing really of mention. Just the normal routine." He ran a hand through graying hair. "Been watching the men, trying to pick out a suitable replacement."  
  
Vimes sighed slightly. "I'm not sure we can fully replace you, Keel."  
  
Keel nodded. "I completely agree. The only one who seems somewhat competent is that bastard Quirke. There's a sergeant over in Treacle Mine Road – Colon or some other organ like that – that does a bloody good job as a sergeant, but he's not shown any interest in being promoted."  
  
Now it was Vimes' turn to run his fingers through his hair. "We'll find someone, I'm sure. But –" he gave Keel a despairing glance "– you've been the best mentor I've ever had. What are you going to do after you retire?"  
  
Keel shrugged again. "Never thought about it, Sam."  
  
Sam stared at the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he continued. "What about the new recruits this month? How's the civilian program coming?"  
  
"Oh, we're getting all sorts," Keel said with a laugh. "We've got a civilian corporal now; some character. We're letting him deal with the newer civilian recruits. They're not a spot on the men we get out of the army, but for patrolling they do a good enough job."  
  
"Have you told me about this corporal before?" Vimes asked, digging around in the messy desk of his memory.  
  
"Probably," Keel responded honestly. "Real character – hardly ever says a word. Got some strange name. He's from Llamedos, I think. I have him in the mounted unit right now – came with his own horse. Real quiet type."  
  
"Is he smart?" Vimes asked, suddenly seeing a possibility. From his expression, Keel saw it too.  
  
"We can never promote him soon enough without it looking suspicious." He looked at Vimes apologetically. "Maybe next time around – he isn't that old at all." Keel paused. "And I'm not sure if he's smart enough – he hardly ever says anything. Funny name. Lives at Mrs. Cake's."  
  
"He must be a pretty interesting person," Vimes said thoughtfully. "Keep an eye on him. I may want to meet him some day."  
  
"Yessir," Keel said. He saluted. "Can I leave now?"  
  
Vimes nodded. "Certainly." He sighed, frustrated now. "Gods I hate dealing with these ambassadors. Having to look like you agree with them all the time; it's a royal pain."  
  
Keel chuckled at the pun. "Don't get too bored." He laid a hand on the much younger king's shoulder. "You remind me a lot of your father. Just don't marry a woman like your mother," he added. He turned to leave the room, marching absent-mindedly. "Take care of yourself," he shouted back over his shoulder. And the doors closed.  
  
Vimes counted to four before Wonse scurried back in. "Should his highness be seeing the next appointment?"  
  
Sam kept his face impassive as he strode toward the side door leading out of the throne room. "I think I need a few moments to myself, Wonse," he was saying. "I'll be back in twenty minutes."

-  
  
-some kinds of people are resilient enough to show up in the world no matter what happens

-  
  
Corporal Havelock Vetinari was on Palace duty. In the Watch, Palace Duty meant you leaned against a post and watched how the Palace Guard went about business. Normally this was reserved for new recruits with more ambition. Vetinari was there today with a civilian recruit who was painfully wet behind the ears and needed to get some serious hours in just watching how it was done.  
  
"They just hit that man with a club!" the recruit was saying. "Right in front of everyone!"  
  
"He was trying to pickpocket them," Vetinari said simply. He tipped his helmet further down to shade his eyes and squinted – despite the overcast skies the glare was awful. He slouched against the pillar and let the recruit get on with it.  
  
"I didn't see that! How did you see that?!" The little man was dithering now. Vetinari said nothing and continued to squint at the guards. Despite the fact he'd been in the city for ten year's now – three of them spent in the civilian program in the Watch – watching how the guards operated was still fascinating. Apparently they were the cream of the crop. As far as Havelock could see they were the pushiest and most arrogant. Intelligence seemed not to factor into it at all.  
  
"Look! It's Keel!" the constable squeaked suddenly. As a panic reaction the little man jumped to attention. Havelock continued in his slouch. Keel didn't even see them and walked the other way.  
  
"You could have been discharged sir!" The little constable had resumed his squeaking. Havelock closed his eyes and tuned him out. His stomach rumbled unhappily. He ignored it – as if he wasn't getting enough complaints about his weight from Mrs. Cake, now his own body was demanding food. It irritated him slightly that everyone thought he ought to take money out of his own salary just to feed himself. So what if nothing fit him because he was too thin? That was his own business.  
  
When he opened his eyes again the little constable was giving him and apprehensive look. "Are you alright sir?" The nervous man asked quietly.  
  
"Fine," Havelock snapped. All he needed was insubordinates worrying after him.  
  
"Only sergeant Colon said to look after you – said to make sure you ate something . . ." he shut his mouth after he came under the corporal's glare. Very cautiously the recruit leaned against the pillar next to the corporal, occasionally peeking around the side of it to watch what the Palace guards were doing.  
  
Havelock leaned back comfortably as the clouds opened and a beam of sunlight fought through, hitting their side of the Palace. He was quite comfortably warm in his chainmail and breastplate, thank you very much.  
  
"Corporal?" The recruit's voice broke through his pleasant cat-nap. He pursed his lips and restrained from sighing.  
  
"Yes?" he prompted, when the man did not seem to be continuing.  
  
"Why are they beating that man, sir?"  
  
Vetinari shoved his hands more deeply into his pockets and scowled. "King's orders," he said shortly. He wondered if the mare had been fed that morning.  
  
"Isn't that kind of mean? Like, police brutality?"  
  
"They're not police," Havelock said, hunching over even further. His stomach complained. "They do what the King orders them to do." There was a lull in the verbal exchange. Havelock, feeling it was probably his job to teach the lad /something/ cleared his throat and straightened ever so slightly.  
  
"What did he do, constable, which may have promoted the beating?" he asked cautiously. His helmet was still down over his eyes, so he wasn't sure if the boy was even paying attention.  
  
"He asked them for some money," the recruit replied. Vetinari coughed and scowled more deeply than before. "Alright sir?"  
  
"Bloody stupid," he muttered. "Legalized crime and begging, that's what this city needs. Let those leaders deal with it and keep the beggars from getting beaten. Save us time, too. Lower Watch casualties."  
  
There was stone silence from the trainee. Havelock raised a thin, tanned hand and pushed the visor of his helmet up, one blue eye taking in the shocked look on the constable's face.  
  
"You're mad, sir," the constable said faintly. "Legalizing crime?"  
  
"It would work," Havelock said confidently, settling back and letting the helmet drop again. "Work like a machine."  
  
"Mad," came the reply. "Completely mad."  
  
And then there was silence. Havelock ignored another complaint from his stomach and rested one foot, settling in for a nap until shift was over.

-  
  
It's all about the ripples. You drop a little stone, somewhere, and it creates a ripple. This ripple might disturb a colony of rare fish eggs, a turtle might spot them, and they might all get eaten, causing the wipeout of an entire species. Likely? No, but it just goes to show that willingly or not, many of our actions have the potential for dire consequences.

-  
  
The greasy-haired young man leaning against the wall some twenty feet down from the civilian corporal and his trainee constable heard what the corporal said. He smiled a slow smile that seemed to be deep in his face. Lovingly, he fingered the pieces of a crossbow in his pocket. Making sure everything was in order; he stood up and strolled by the two watchmen casually. The young constable was so wet behind the ears he wouldn't know a criminal if one walked up and hit him in the face and the corporal was apparently asleep. Without making it too obvious, the man took note of the corporal's badge number. And then he strode around to corner and toward the Palace gates.


	10. Chapter 10

Revolutions (Part Three, Chapter Ten)

By: Twist

A/n: Yikes! It's been almost a year since this puppy was updated. But no, I never gave up on it. I just needed time to do other stuff, write other stuff. I came back to it, didn't I? And look: a nice, long chapter to make up for it. Well, maybe not nice. Kind of depressing, really. Whatever. Read, enjoy, review. Next chapter should be up sooner since I'm in the groove again. Oh, and asterisks won't work, so pretend the sexy / is an asterisk.

Disclaimer: All characters and places contained herein belong to Mr. Terry Pratchett. The plot is the only thing that belongs to Twist, and even that probably belonged to someone else first. Twist is not profiting from the "publication" of this fiction.

-

King Sam Vimes suppressed a sigh as he laid down one document and picked up another. Being king, he thought, was not as glorious as many seemed to assume. Of course, there was the more exciting bits – parties that turned wild after too much alcohol had been consumed, watching other people get assassinated, overseeing the Watch – but for the most part it was boring as hell. His eyes flicked over the document's heading and his attention to it intensified when he realized it was a Watch report.

In the corner of the Rats' Chamber – which was the only room heralded worthy of being the official office of the King – the Grand Vizier, Lupine Wonse, worked quietly away on foreign correspondences and reports. Vimes didn't mind; he could never get the hang of all that intricate political stuff. No, he was perfectly content dealing with domestic issues.

A sudden commotion from the far end of the room caused his head to snap up, eyes narrowed. The doors had burst open and without a word the intruder had shot Wonse squarely between the eyes. The Vizier opened his mouth to scream, but could only manage a bloody gurgle before slouching over. Vimes saw the bodies of his guards strewn across the front hall.

Instinct kicked in. You can take a Vimes and give them hundreds of years of pampered royal living, but deep inside it's still a Vimes. The King dove out of his chair to the right, hearing only vaguely the _ping_ as the crossbow bolt glanced off the gold-plated nickel chair. As soon as he got his feet underneath him he bolted forward toward his assailant, swerving quickly to the left along the way and causing the greasy-haired young man to miss his next shot. In seconds Sam had crossed the room and was upon the other man. Without pausing for thought, Vimes swung his fist at the assassin's face and neatly knocked him out cold.

He paused to pant and assess the situation. His would-be-assassin was lying on the faded carpet of the Rats' Chamber, nose starting to bleed. He looked to be between twenty and twenty-five, and slightly mad/. His greasy blond hair obscured his face. He wasn't thin, though the King would not have called him fat either. Vimes wouldn't have picked him out in a crowd; aside from his poor hygiene he was totally unremarkable.

Sam decided that it was probably best to tie him up. As no one in the immediate vicinity appeared to be alive to fetch some rope or shackles, the King began tearing strips off of his official clothing without regret. He tied the man's ankles and wrists pretty firmly, he thought, and went to get help, closing and locking the Rats' Chamber door behind him.

-

Twenty minutes later the man had come to and found himself seated across a makeshift desk from the man he had just tried to kill. His nose had stopped bleeding, though he had a terrible headache. He assumed that it would only get worse, as the King did not look at all happy. He didn't look unhappy either, but decidedly . . . predatory.

"Care to explain yourself?" Vimes said, a dark glee apparent in his voice.

The assassin thought fast. His headache made it difficult, but the prepared lie started to come forth from memory. "I was chosen," he said, working very hard to sound as though he had been brainwashed at some point. However, as he was unsure of what a brainwashed person sounded like, this was difficult.

The King sat back, eyebrows raised. "Were you? Care to tell me by whom?" He sounded skeptical but the assassin, encouraged by the fact that his lie was _really good_, plowed on.

"The Brothers," he said faintly. "Watch chose me."

"The Watch?" Vimes asked, trying to control the alarm in his voice. Of all people, a Vimes king was especially wary of revolutionary Watchmen.

"Not the Watch," the assassin said, shaking his head side-to-side stiffly. "Watch. The leader."

"Ah," Sam said. "Care to tell me Watch's real name? I promise I'll make your death a lot less painful."

The assassin quelled the nervousness in his voice. "We only know him by his badge number."

"So he is in the Watch?" Vimes asked sharply. "Any other Watch members you aren't telling me about?"

"I do not know the other Brothers."

Vimes exhaled deeply, scowling. "Fine. Tell me this leader's badge number."

"He is number 177. He has ideas about the city that must be carried out by the Brothers."

Vimes' scowl grew deeper. "Is that so? Very well. Guards?" The assassin suddenly noticed the presence of two city guards on either side of him. He suppressed a shiver. "Take his down to the cells and give him a last meal. He'll be beheaded at twilight." The king grinned mirthlessly as the condemned assassin. "Have a nice afternoon," he said coldly.

When the guards had dragged the greasy-haired young man away, Vimes exhaled. So there was a conspiracy, was there? Well, the only way to deal with conspiracies was to take out the leader. Happily, he knew who that was. He sent a clerk out to fetch Keel and bring the Watch roster of enrolled men and their badge numbers.

-

Carrot crouched in the bushes as the coach rattled down the road. Next to him, Scat licked his lips, revealing yellowed and decayed teeth. "They're rich, boy," Scat growled softly. "Look; coat of arms and everything." Carrot nodded slightly.

The traveling bandits had accepted that Carrot – now fifteen – was a fine young man, and it was high time he started participating in highway robberies with them. This was his first, and he was trying very hard not to botch it up. Angua had given him as many tips as she could, but admitted that tips were no substitute for real-life experience. Carrot had observed plenty before, and kept the smoothest and most profitable of them in the forefront of his mind, determined to follow the set example.

The bushes across the road rustled, and Angua stepped out, totally naked. The driver of the coach, a man of about thirty or so, pulled up the horses, eyes wide.

"I'm a bit lost," Angua said lightly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Could you possibly give me directions?"

"Er . . ." the coach driver said. He opened his mouth to say something more – perhaps this time with actual words – but just then one of the passengers of the coach leaned out.

"What's the problem, man?" he demanded, before catching sight of Angua. "Oh," he said faintly, when his eyes finally settled on her figure. "Need some help, miss?"

Next to Carrot, almost imperceptibly, Scat nodded. Down the row of bushes another bandit, this one called Egg, pulled out a crossbow. With barely a sound he fired. Unnoticed by the passengers, the driver slumped over, blood bubbling briefly from his chest. Angua grinned, somewhat predatorily. The horses froze, too terrified to flee.

Scat stood up, along with Egg and the other bandits in their troupe. Carrot quickly followed suit, trying to look as intimidating as possible. "Looks to me like you all are the ones needing help," Scat said with a grin. "Everybody out! Hands up!"

Suddenly terrified, the four passengers of the coach climbed out with their hands raised in the air. One of the women was crying. Wordlessly, all the bandits except for Egg walked by the group of passengers and started looting the carriage.

"If you cooperate, we might let you live," Carrot heard Egg say conversationally to the presumed leader of the passengers. He put the travelers out of his mind and began searching the coach. He stuffed their valuables in his sack, and moved on to the roof. When he finished rooting through the luggage, he climbed down and moved to stand next to Egg.

"Good work, boy," the much older man said with a grin. "Hey, I said don't move," he snapped at one of the passengers, waving his crossbow.

The leader of the traveling group was looking at Carrot fearfully. As his eyes took in Carrot's already-massive biceps, his gaze settled on the birthmark. It was in the shape of a perfect crown. Carrot knew what it meant – he had been told as a very young child – but had never cared to disclose it to the rest of the bandits. The man was staring at his birthmark with some reverence now.

"Do you know what that mark means, lad?" the passenger asked Carrot, eyes wide.

"Here, don't be talking to him," Egg growled. "You keep quiet and hold still."

"Sir, the city is in need of you now more than ever," the man continued as though Egg had never spoken. "The Vimes line is still in control, and the city craves its true leader. You must return, sir –"

"I said shut up!" roared Egg.

"Shoot him," Scat said absently as he rustled through his own sack.

"This, boy, is what you do when passengers don't listen," Egg said instructionally as he fired at the man who had been speaking to Carrot. The arrow hit him point-blank in the throat. As the blood sprayed, the other passengers started screaming. One of the women tried to make a run for it, but Scat's arrow caught her square in the back. "Now we've murdered two of 'em, we have to do away with the rest," Egg said conversationally as his third arrow found its way home directly in the chest of the second woman. She coughed mid-sob and blood spurted out of her mouth before she crumpled. The last passenger - a man - tried to fight until the golden wolf's jaws snapped shut around his neck. Angua stepped back from the corpse, licked her bloody chops, and trotted off to Change.

"It was smooth as silk right up until that point," Scat grumbled. "Ah well. Got some good loot, anyway. Carrot, help Egg with the bodies, would you?"

Obediently, Carrot dropped his sack and helped Egg drag the bodies off the road, depositing them behind the same bushes the bandits had been hiding behind only moments earlier. Their task finished, Carrot made to retrieve his bag, but Egg stopped him.

"What does that birthmark mean, boy?" he asked, scarred forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "I've often wondered that myself."

"Nothing," Carrot said dismissively. "It's just got a weird shape to it, is all."

Egg nodded, but Carrot could tell he wasn't pleased with the answer. "Yeah, alright," the older bandit said slowly. "I suppose it's possible." He pretended to drop it, but Carrot could tell it was bothering him. The young bandit decided that he would have to wear longer sleeves to robberies from here on out.

-

Havelock Vetinari was very, very confused. He wasn't sure why he was in front of the king at the moment, why he had been taken with such force, and why it was so urgent that the king see him _right then_. He did his best to hide his confusion, however, and merely stood respectfully at attention in front of the king's hastily-constructed desk. They weren't in the Rats' Chamber, which Havelock mentally filed under 'slightly odd', but that was not the most pressing problem. The thing that was worrying the corporal so much was the king's tight, anxious grin.

"Corporal . . . Vetinari, is it?" King Vimes asked, trying and failing miserably at being friendly. Havelock nodded warily. "You possess badge number 177, yes?"

"Yes, your highness," Havelock said, being very careful not to look directly at the king. He settled for a point about three inches above and five inches to the right of the man's left ear. It seemed to serve.

"Vetinari, do you know what happened in this Palace this morning?" Vimes said tensely.

Vetinari shook his head slowly. "No idea, your highness."

"There was an assassination attempt," Vimes said shortly. "Thankfully and obviously, our would-be assassin failed." He paused. "Corporal, do you belong to any secret societies?"

Vetinari was caught off-guard here, but managed to maintain his blank expression. "No, sir."

"That's interesting," Vimes said thoughtfully. "Because, you see, the would-be assassin this morning did. I asked him about it, you know. He said the leader of his society put him up to his task this morning."

"Would you like me to pursue said leader?" Vetinari asked, extremely confused. He had a sinking feeling, however, that that was not what the king had in mind.

"Not now, man," Vimes said, suddenly amicable. "Tell me something; how long have you been in the city?"

"Ten years, your highness," Vetinari replied neutrally. A primal part of his brain was screaming that he was the prey, there was the predator, and now was time to panic. He suppressed it.

"So, time enough then to see how things are done around here?"

"Yes sir."

"You seem like a bright man, corporal," the king said, expression indiscernible. "Bright men always have ideas about how the city ought to be run. I assume you have a few yourself?"

" . . . Perhaps," Vetinari said carefully.

"Well, how about you tell me a few? Perhaps some of them are actually valid, hm?"

"Sir, it's not my place."

"Go on, man!"

"Well . . . " Vetinari took a deep breath. "Sir, the level of crime would decrease significantly, I think, if crime was legalized." Vimes was staring at him. "I mean, the Assassins have a guild, right? If the thieves did, they could sell, I don't know, insurance or something. Robberies would be official, and come with a receipt. The guild would be in charge of monitoring the _un_authorized crime and controlling it. Sir, it would cut down significantly on the amount of work the Watch would have to do."

"Is that so?" Vimes said carefully. "Another other ideas, corporal?"

"The gates should be open to everyone," Vetinari said firmly. "Dwarves, trolls, you name it. This city is an economic power waiting to happen, and dwarves and trolls would significantly contribute to the types of labor performed in the city." He stopped himself short, watching the king. Vimes had sat back in his chair and was drumming his fingers on the arms.

"Funny thing," the king said at last, "the lad this morning mentioned the leader of his little society had some radical ideas about the city. Your ideas seem pretty radical to me, Vetinari."

"Sir, with all due respect, you are the first person ever to hear those things." Which wasn't exactly true, but he knew the lance-constable with him that morning _was_ really the first person to hear those things, and he had had no time to start a secret society, especially since he had been with Vetinari the entire time.

"You know, I'd love to believe you, Vetinari," Vimes said, leaning forward and fixing the corporal with a glare. "I really would. I've heard about you before; Keel had very high opinions of you. We had plans to make you commander of the Watch. And I would believe you if our little assassin hadn't identified you this morning as the leader of his secret society."

Vetinari just managed to keep his jaw from dropping. "Sir, he must be lying," he said automatically.

"I'd love to believe you, Vetinari," Vimes said. "But you meet the description: in the Watch, badge 177 –"

"Anyone could've made that up!"

"– Not to mention radical ideas about the city," Vimes said tightly.

Vetinari set his jaw and leaned on the desk, glaring at the king. "I am not, have never, and never will be in a secret society. I did _not_ plan or command your assassination."

"Get off my desk, corporal," the king said dangerously. Vetinari, still glaring, took a step back. "You're a lucky man, Vetinari. You were luckier a minute ago, but you're still lucky." He looked down and shuffled some papers on his desk. "I should have you executed. Any sensible king would do that, and no one would every think the less of him. However, I did mention that Commander Keel thinks highly of you, remember?"

Vetinari nodded, still glaring. He was unsure of the direction this was going, but thought it would be best just to go along with it.

"Keel seems incapable of believing you're behind this, and I trust him," Vimes said. "_However_, if he is incorrect, I can't just let you loose to come back and finish the job later. So I'm settling for the happy medium." He glared right back at Vetinari. "Twenty years alone in the dungeons of the Palace. It was going to be fifteen, but then you touched my desk. Guards!"

"You're wrong," Vetinari said softly, standing stock-still as the guards handcuffed him.

"I'll make it twenty-five," Vimes said dangerously. "You're lucky to be alive, you know. Not to mention three meals a day and a spot out of the rain . . . mostly. I've heard your cell leaks a bit."

"Cell eight, then, your highness?" the guard on Vetinari's left asked.

"Yes," Vimes said, turning his attention back to his paperwork. "Standard uniform, meals, all that. No bed, though; just a mattress will do for him." He looked up to Vetinari, expression cold. "You'd better thank Keel when you get out. Enjoy your stay."

-

/Vimes did realize, however, that he may have been somewhat biased at this point.


	11. Chapter 11

Revolutions (Part Three, Chapter Eleven)

By: Twist

Disclaimer: All characters and places contained herein belong to Mr. Terry Pratchett. Twist is not profiting from their use, nor from the 'publication' of this fic.

-

Years passed, as they are wont to do. When looked at from the perspective of the Great A'Tuin, hardly any time had passed at all – barely enough to blink an eye. When looked at from the perspective of the ragtag group of highway bandits, however, it had been _ages_, and their luck was finally changing.

Who would have guessed that the little redheaded boy they had found twenty-three years ago would have been such a windfall? Carrot had grown impressively; standing at six and a half feet with arms so strong that an average-sized man could hang off of them, he cut an imposing figure during most robberies. The one thing they could not stamp out of him though – much to the bandits' dismay – was his ever-present kind streak. They could tell murders and robberies always bothered him, even though he was incredibly loyal to the troupe and always did as the older bandits ordered. So they tried to give him the duties that involved being more of a people person; the rate of people they had to kill had plummeted significantly since the troupe had decided Carrot should be responsible for guarding the passengers while their coach was looted. It was actually very nice that way; the robberies went much more smoothly, and they amount of bloodstains was greatly reduced.

It was after a particularly clean, profitable murder that Carrot's fate would ultimately be set in motion. The troupe was drinking in a backcountry little tavern – the kind where no one really asks questions. Angua was the only one sober when the ultimate Conversation arose. For the past thirteen years, ever since the robbery in which one passenger had made some unusual comments about Carrot's birthmark, the older bandits had been trying to wheedle out of the boy what the birthmark really _did_ mean. After all, Carrot obviously knew, so he practically had to tell them. Up until that night, Carrot had never been quite drunk enough to say. This, however, was about to change post-haste.

"Hey!" Egg said suddenly, looking blearily up from his mug. The meager light from the bar candles was shining off Carrot's massive bicep. The older bandit pointed drunkenly in the general vicinity of the boy's birthmark. "You never did go an' tell us . . . Tell us wha' tha' is."

Carrot drunkenly examined his own bicep, frowning. "No?"

"No, you didn'! S'very rude, I should say!" Egg exclaimed, trying to thump the table and nearly getting it. Angua watched to see what the younger bandit would say.

"It is," he said slowly. "Means m'a king." With that proclamation he grinned serenely. "King of . . . wossname . . . Ankhy somethin'."

"Ankh-Morpork?" Angua asked, eyes wide. "You're the king of Ankh-Morpork?"

"Tha's the one!" Carrot said, smiling benignly. "Ankhy Pork. M'the king, y'know? King of the whole thing!" With that, he slumped over the table and began snoring faintly. It would have been comical in almost any other situation; as it was, all the other bandits present stared at him.

"King?" Scat said muzzily.

"We're gonna hafta do sumthin' 'bout that," murmured a bandit called Tev. "Later."

-

On the same night, a meager seventy-five miles away, King Sam Vimes was enjoying a relaxing evening with an old friend. The Earl of Ankh, Lord Nobbs (Nobby to his friends) had been invited round to the Palace for a bit of a drink and a chat. Never one to refuse any kind of offer that involved free things, Nobby had come down right on time. Sam was relieved; he enjoyed Nobby's company. He found that the little man was much more intelligent and perceptive than anyone in their right mind would give him credit for. He was also funny, which was always a refreshing change in Vimes' line of work.

The candles sputtered and shadows wallowed in the room as the two men sat in comfortable silence. Swirling his drink idly, Nobby asked, "How's the new Watch Commander getting on?"

Vimes groaned. "Atticus? Fine, really. If by 'fine' you mean neurotically fixated on all things written; I doubt he's ever broken a rule in his life."

"I suppose you miss Keel then?"

"Damn right I do," Vimes grunted. "But he's enjoying a well-earned retirement, and Atticus isn't that bad of a watchman when you think about it. He's just not Keel."

"Well, he's probably trying to show all those army lads that a civilian watchman can be just as good. I mean, a lot of the boys from the army resented him; maybe he feels like he's got something to prove?" Nobby said thoughtfully. He took another sip of brandy and watched Vimes for his reaction.

"That would makes sense," the king muttered. He slumped a little in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Promoting a civilian was a bad idea, Nobby. The army lads'll never respect a civilian as much as one of their own. I don't know why it seemed like a good move."

"Oh, I can think of one civilian who might have done the trick . . ." Nobby said with a smirk. He shrugged when Vimes glared. "What?"

"Listen, Nobby, I know you think he's brilliant, but the point is the man organized my assassination. A king can't overlook that sort of thing." He paused for a moment. "When was the last time you saw him, by the way?"

"A week ago."

"You do know he's supposed to be isolated, yes?"

"Can't help it, your highness; he's a fascinating person. Brains like you wouldn't believe."

"He organized my assassination, man!"

"Except that he didn't." Nobby grinned. "Come now, your highness, you _know_ it's true."

Vimes sighed. "Well, whether it was him behind it or not, he'll probably survive to see the end of his sentence. After that we'll maybe see what he could do for the government."

Nobby grinned. "Probably for the best, your highness."

-

Many floors below the King and the Earl, where candlelight was a nice fantasy to dream of and the wet drizzle of the night was making its way in, a thin man lay on a mattress. His graying hair was short-cropped according to the King's regulations. He shivered slightly and stared blankly at the wall.

The guards thought he was insane. He was nearly certain he wasn't, and after all, who had _time_ to worry about what other people thought? Well, he probably did, but worrying was a rather stupid thing to do, he felt, and therefore he spent his time on more productive things. Like trade.

Numbers danced around his head, along with trade reports and budgets and public service projects. Mass transportation, that's what the city needed. Something like huge carts with seats for hordes of people, stopping at pre-determined locations. Mass transportation and proper sewage management and water quality control . . .

Hardly blinking, shivering without noticing, Havelock Vetinari stared at the map of Ankh-Morpork on the wall in front of himself. He'd drawn it from memory, using the end of a burnt stick. It was crude, and he was certain there were bits missing, but it served. And as the drizzle pattered down onto the floor around him, unheeded, Vetinari planned.

-

Carrot woke up around one in the afternoon with a hangover like none other. He groaned softly and rolled over, rubbing his eyes. Outside his tent, he could hear the other bandits going about their business. He decided to wake up sufficiently before facing the sunlight.

When he finally did stumble out of his tent, the camp grew hushed. All eyes were on Carrot who, rather muzzily, gave them all a questioning look. "What?" he asked, fighting back a yawn.

"Nothing lad," Egg said slowly. "Nothing at all." He hadn't looked up from what he was doing the entire time. The rest of the bandits, obeying some mysterious cue, returned to whatever they had been up to. Carrot shrugged mentally and stumbled off to wash his face and find some sort of beverage; his mouth felt as though there was a wad of cotton lodged in it.

The day passed and the bandits did the little things that had to be done; there was food to be cooked and eaten, blood to be cleaned out of clothing and knives to be sharpened. Eventually night fell. By then Carrot had got his brain working somewhat properly, and could actually be around a light source without wishing his eyes would fall out and go away.

"Lad," Egg called as Carrot was heading for his tent. He was tired and didn't really want to talk, but respected Egg and therefore would do as the older bandit asked. "Come here, Carrot." Carrot walked over slowly, and sat cross-legged by the fire. Egg was sucking on a piece of grass pensively, staring into the fire.

"Carrot, do you remember what happened last night?" Egg asked slowly, the blade of grass trembling as he spoke.

"We . . . got drunk," Carrot said slowly. "I'm grateful to whoever carried me home, by the way; I'm almost certain I didn't walk back."

"Tev and Angua managed to get you back," Egg said distantly. "Carrot, do you remember anything you said at the pub last night? Anything . . . interesting?"

"No," Carrot said slowly. "I'm sorry, sir, but what is this about?"

"You," Egg said firmly. "Carrot, last night you told us about that birthmark on your arm."

Carrot's eyes widened. "Oh," he said softly.

"Yes, 'oh'," the older bandit said. "Carrot, the other boys and Angua and I got to talking, and we thought about what you are."

"Sir, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I was told not to . . ."

Egg waved a hand. "It's probably all for the better really," he sighed. "You're much more capable of regaining the throne now than when you were younger."

Carrot coughed. "Regaining the throne? Sir, I'm not interested in being King! I like what I'm doing now!"

Egg snorted. "Not interested? Lad, you're a king! You have an opportunity here for riches and power and fame! Are you just going to turn that down?"

"I . . . well, I suppose." He caught sight of Egg's incredulous stare. "My family's been doing the same for years, sir. Yes, we could have walked right back in to Ankh-Morpork and claimed the throne, but there was no point, you see? The Vimes line is a powerful line; there was no way we could overtake them even if we managed to muster an army."

Egg grinned predatorily. "Sometimes, an army is unnecessary force, lad." He coughed and straightened. "We're going to Ankh-Morpork tomorrow, no arguments. It's about time you took your rightful place in the world." He gave Carrot a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "I knew from day one you weren't cut out for this robbery business."

"No, sir," Carrot said, somewhat miserably. "I'll just go to bed, shall I?"

"Good idea," Egg said, staring into the fire, grinning a little. "Tomorrow I'll brief everyone on the plan before we set off. We should leave early, I'd think; we'll get close enough tomorrow night and the next day we can put our plan into action."

"Yes, sir," Carrot muttered. With an apprehensive look back at Egg he trudged back to his tent, swearing he would never drink again.

-

A/n: Hope you all enjoyed that little snippet; it's the last we're gonna have before the final action starts up. We're about four chapters away from 'done' here, folks, so start saying 'adios' to all your favorites.

Oh, and the Havelock scene was totally gratuitous. I knew you all would be worried.


	12. Chapter 12

HOLY MOTHER&%^*ING SHIT.

IS THAT AN UPDATE?

YOU BET YOUR SWEET FIC-READING ASS IT IS. HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT, GODDAMN. I THINK I CHANGED THE STORY SLIGHTLY BECAUSE I LOST THE OFFICIAL OUTLINE LIKE A HUNDRED YEARS AGO BUT HOT DAMN IT'S STILL THE SAME GODDAMN CROTCH-RIDING PLOT SWEET BALLS.

You get points if you can tell the rest of the class in the reviews why the hell the author's note is written like that hahaha.

But in all seriousness, yes, here it is, the 12th chapter of Revolutions, OMG. Please, enjoy. And thanks, to all those of you who are reading this after all that time, for coming back. You stay classy.

"_Nothing is so fatiguing as the eternal hanging on of an uncompleted task."_

-- William James

"_Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you. Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you."_

-- Richard Astley

--=--

The bandits traveled all day, stopping only briefly around noon for a small lunch. They had no horses, since the animals were tough to hide in an ambush, so their progress was slow. Carrot estimated they'd been traveling for about eight hours at least; at this rate they wouldn't make it to Ankh-Morpork until tomorrow afternoon. Carrot didn't care, in fact the boy had been desperately wishing all day that they would never make it to Ankh-Morpork.

He'd tried to explain privately to Egg that he didn't have any desire at all to rule to city, and that maybe this wasn't a good idea. Just as he had the night before, the older bandit brushed Carrot's concerns away.

"It's your rightful place," Egg said, trying to be reassuring. "You can't run from it, boy; it's in your blood."

Carrot reflected morosely that his blood had been very watered-down through the centuries, and perhaps now returning to the throne wasn't in his blood – that bit had been bred out years ago. On one hand he hoped that was the case, but on the other hand he knew what happened to kings the public didn't approve of, and it wasn't good. It usually involved blood, sharp objects and lost body parts.

When they made camp, the first-quarter moon was high in the sky. Scat started a fire while Angua Changed and trotted off into the woods nearby woods to find dinner. Carrot helped pitch the tents, silent, and Egg simply sat on a log. Every once and again his lips would move as he talked to himself, or he would shake his head. Carrot recognized it as Planning, and knew that for that much Planning to be going on, Egg was probably cooking up quite the scheme. Normally this would be wonderful, but right now Carrot rather wished that he would Plan someone else's future.

Angua dragged a deer back shortly after camp was set up. Tev butchered the animal and Scat cooked it on the open fire. While everyone was eating, Egg cleared his throat.

"We're going to Ankh-Morpork tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly.

"What, the city?" Scat asked, looking up from poking the fire.

"Yes the city, you stupid idiot," Egg snapped. "Lads, we have quite the mission ahead of us." Carrot tried to figure out how he could slip off into the woods unnoticed. "You see our lad Carrot here is the King." The entire party turned to look at Carrot, and those that were having trouble remembering the Night of Revelry were slack-jawed.

"I – I . . ." Carrot trailed off, catching Egg's glare. "I've got a birthmark," he mumbled, apparently addressing his meal.

"Right," Egg said firmly, as if that was all the empirical evidence ever needed. "And so we, my lads, are going to go about reinstating him in his rightful place. Re-ascend to the throne, and all that."

"Here, how do we know he's the King, and not just got a weird birthmark?" Angua asked, winking at Carrot. "I mean, if he were the King, you'd think he'd want to take his place, right? But I'd say by the looks of him that he doesn't much want that at all."

Egg scowled. "Wanting got nothing to do with it. You think all birds want to fly, all fish want to swim? No, but they do 'cause it's their nature."

"Too right," Tev mumbled. "I wanted to be an Assassin."

"Right," Egg went on, "you see? Tev here wanted to be an Assassin but his father was a thief, and his father before him. He was _born_ into it." Angua took the opportunity to roll her eyes at Carrot. "So Carrot's got to be King. You'll grow into it lad, don't worry about it."

Scat raised a hand timidly, but he was smirking. "Right, and all that, but, er, hasn't that city already like, got a King? Vine or something?"

"Vimes," Angua corrected gently. "King Vimes."

"Right," Scat went on. "So how's that gonna work? You know, little highway robbery group, King's Palace chock full of guards, not to mention the City Watch. Not what you'd call a fair fight, really."

Egg nodded, smiling widely. "Of course, could be tricky. But that is why I have a _plan_." He leaned in, and so it began.

--=--

The walk to the city was much too fast, as far as Carrot was concerned. The group split up, made their way through various gates into the city and regrouped in front of the Palace. "Nice place," Scat said appraisingly. "Architecture is a good representation of the Old Nationalist period, see the arches?"

"You know about buildings?" Tev asked, brow furrowed.

"Hobby," Scat answered shortly, taking in the façade of the building. "Right, Egg, so we're just going to, eh, you know, infiltrate?"

"And stay together," Egg added quietly. "Keep your voices down, go along with everyone else until the time comes. Everyone remember their part?"

"Egg, I'm not really sure this is the best of ideas." Angua put in a last-ditch protest effort, but Egg ignored her.

"Alright, everyone, inside, here we go."

Carrot jumped a little when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked to his right, and Angua was there, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "It was a good try."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I'm not sure I would be more or less depressed if I was less certain this is going to work."

She chuckled a little. "Just keep your chin up and smile as you go. I'm sure you'll think of something when the time comes."

The thieves infiltrated the Palace via the general entrance. They flooded in with the tide of people who were there for summons, or citizenship, or employment, or help, or whatever else they thought King Vimes would be able to provide them with. They slipped by the clerks herding people into orderly lines, and made their way down the corridor to the museum. Halfway down that hall there was a small doorway, guarded, that led to the first of the off-limits section of the Palace – the Great Hall. It would be empty right now, so once they were inside there would be no trouble, but getting there was going to be the problem. Carrot and Angua took up their stations in the museum next to a glass case containing what was presumably a very important document. Scat and Egg pretended to admire a tapestry, while Tev meandered back down the corridor.

"He shouldn't be taking this long," Angua muttered, idly running her fingers down the identification plate on the front of an exhibit of various flatware used by past monarchs. "This is too long."

Carrot swallowed, and tried to ignore the feeling that his heart was trying to escape his chest cavity by spasming its way up his throat. "We should go take a look and see if he's still there," he murmured.

"No, we'll get noticed. Stick to the plan. Egg and Scat will take care of it."

The minutes stretched by. Carrot was getting jumpier with each passing second, each nonchalant observation of the exhibits. He could tell Angua was getting worried too, and she had just muttered something about going to Change when Tev sauntered back into the room. He flipped a hand signal. Scat and Egg exited the museum, and a minute and a half later, Angua and Carrot followed. They ducked into the narrow corridor to the Great Hall. Angua patted him on the shoulder. "There you are," she smirked.

"We still have to make it up to the King," he reminded her.

She smiled wider, wriggled out of her shirt, and handed it to him. "I wouldn't worry about that too much."

--=--

King Vimes didn't keep dogs. Which was why, at a little past four o'clock in the afternoon, he looked up curiously from his paperwork when a bark sounded outside the door to his office. He looked to the guard by the door, eyebrows raised. The man nodded and slid outside of the office. Vimes waited for either a scream or for the man to come back inside, but neither happened. He was at the point of grabbing a sword and finding out what was going on himself when the door swung in.

Only it wasn't the guard. Vimes' eyes narrowed. "And who might you be?" His hand drifted to his sword. The tall, ginger young man shook his head and raised a crossbow.

"Please, your Highness, don't do that." He closed the door behind him. "I'd rather no one else died today."

"_What_?" The question was low, and dangerous, and sent several more primal aspects of Carrot's brain scrambling for cover. He'd heard the King was older, but he realized now, staring the man in the face, that older did not necessarily mean softer. He was still mid-forties, if Carrot could guess, and was everything the Vimes line was remembered for: wiry, cagey-looking bastards with a glare that could melt iron and an anger management problem. Carrot swallowed again.

"Please, sir, this wasn't my idea," he begged. "I just . . ." He gestured to the door helplessly with his free hand. "It's these people I live with, they want me to be king or something, I don't know."

"And what reason might they have for that?" Vimes asked, mentally appraising the distance between his right hand and his sword. If he was fast enough, maybe, but that was an awfully big if.

"Well," the boy looked wretched, "I suppose I am the King. By lineage, I mean. Like, you know, I've got a birthmark and everything."

Vimes barked out a laugh. "Oh, a _birthmark_, I'm sorry, I'll just clear right out for you. Listen, boy, I'm not sure what you're on about, but I get the feeling that you aren't really either and while this is one of the more novel attempts at a coup, I'd suggest giving up. People will be along shortly."

"No, they won't," the boy said firmly. We've passed all the guards; some are dead."

"How many?"

Carrot shook his head. "I don't know. I tried to keep them from killing everyone. Not many, I don't think. Some of the wounded should make it."

"'Them'?" The King leaned back. While he was far from at ease, it was becoming increasingly evident that the boy was not going to kill him, and he felt he could afford to seem slightly more casual. Besides, the boy might drop his guard and give Vimes the minute he needed to finish him. "You're not alone in this?"

"No," the boy said. His shoulders sagged a little, but the crossbow didn't waver. "It wasn't even my idea. I travel with these bandits and, well, they found out about the birthmark and the whole thing sort of spiraled out of control and here we are."

Vimes raised his eyebrows. "A group of bandits infiltrated my Palace far enough to hold my life at stake? Clearly I need to invest in better security."

"We do have a werewolf," the red-headed bandit conceded. "That's where the rest of the guards are."

Vimes nodded. "What's your name?"

"Carrot," the boy sighed. "You know, for, well. Obviously."

Vimes looked at his paperwork speculatively. "Carrot, how about we take a look at that birthmark of yours?"

"I can't, your Highness."

"It's somewhere embarrassing then?"

Carrot shook his head. "Nossir. If I drop this crossbow, sir, you will probably kill me."

"Fair enough," the King said, raising his hands and rising, walking around to the front of his desk. "How's that for you?"

The boy looked warily from the King to the sword, licking his lips. Finally, he lowered the crossbow and rolled his sleeve up. Vimes very carefully did _not_ lunge for the sword, and instead walked closer, taking a look at the birthmark. "Well, well. Looks like a crown."

"Yessir," Carrot answered. "And I have the records to prove I'm the King, sir, actually. My family's kept them since we fled the city after Lorenzo." He shrugged. "I just, I never wanted to. None of us did. And I'm really sorry to put you to this trouble –"

Vimes snorted. "You're sorry? Oh, well, that's alright then. I've got men dead in my Palace, but you're _sorry_, so that makes it just dandy. I suppose you can go on your way." The King moved faster than Carrot expected, and grabbed the tall bandit's bicep. The hand holding the crossbow went limp and Vimes snatched it, aiming it at the boy's face. "I have to say, this is the weakest assassination attempt I have yet to endure."

Carrot shrugged. "Kill me then. Make an example. End Lorenzo's line, forever, and have Ankh-Morpork go on under the line of Vimes. It hasn't exactly been a bad thing, really." The boy looked out the window behind the King's desk, which afforded an unparalleled view of Ankh. "You've made it healthy. Cleared up a thousand years of sickness and tyranny and brought commerce and order and prosperity out of the dead husk." His face settled into a kind of smile. "At least I'll die where my line should end."

Vimes watched him, expression unreadable. "No," he said finally. "No, I won't kill you here, not now."

"Your Highness?"

Vimes, one-handed, pulled his belt off and fastened Carrot's wrists behind his back. "I really should get shackles for this office, bloody assassins," he muttered to himself. Carrot watched him, confused. The King prodded Carrot with the crossbow. "Walk, and don't make any noise."

"But there's a wall there."

"Just walk." Carrot stopped short before he could press his nose up against the off-white plaster. Vimes reached around him and pressed the wall. It swung open. "And off we go," the older man chuckled. Carrot couldn't help but notice the note of dark amusement to his voice.

--=--

The hinges had all but rusted shut in all the years they'd been solidly closed. Not that it mattered, at the moment. Vimes waited for the guard to haul the cell door open and then shoved the boy in. The guard swung the door shut again and the lock ground back into place with a very definite slam. The King turned to the guard. "Have men sweep the way to my office from the Great Hall. Plenty of men – military. Don't kill anyone until I give the order." The guard saluted smartly and marched back down the row of cells. At the far end of the block, the heavy oak door shut behind him. Vimes stood back, crossed his arms and then turned to his right, looking over into the next cell. Carrot couldn't see through the stone wall, but Vimes was smirking.

"I've brought you company." He was answered by a rattling cough, which might have been an attempt at a laugh.

"You two should meet," Vimes went on. "I'm sure you'd get along like a house on fire."

Carrot had been hovering near the bars at the front of his cell, but didn't feel brave enough to try to see the other person, not with Vimes standing there, grinning rather evilly. From the next cell, Carrot heard someone making their way over to the front of the cell. Vimes tutted. "You don't look well at all."

"Imagine," came the hoarse reply. The figure leaned forward onto the bars and wheezed for a bit. Carrot swallowed and took a slight step backwards.

"Oh, no, don't be shy about it!" the King said, motioning for Carrot to come forward. "After all, the two of you just have so much in common." Nervously, Carrot made his way up to the bars at the corner of his cell and leaned his shoulder through. He blinked.

The prisoner next door was leaning heavily on the bars, watching Vimes with the kind of fevered intensity you see in either the very ill or the insane. He was impossibly thin – his eyes were sunk deep into black-ringed sockets and his skin was stretched over the rest of him, drawing stark lines that defined bone, sinew and what muscle was left. "I don't suppose it's been twenty years?" he rasped with a kind of dark humor, resting one bony cheek on his fist.

Vimes, without hesitation, ruffled the man's gray hair. "Hang in there, sunshine."

"Working on it," the man smirked. He laughed, but it turned into a hacking cough that almost doubled him over. Carrot watched with a certain measure of horror. When he'd caught his breath enough he extended a thin hand to Carrot through the bars. Carrot shook it, numbly. He was ice cold. "Havelock Vetinari," the man said, by way of introduction. "I didn't try to kill the King sixteen years ago, but he doesn't believe me."

"Carrot," he muttered dumbly, but way of introduction. "I, er, tried to usurp the King. About half an hour ago."

"Amazing you're still alive," Vetinari marveled. He looked to Vimes. "I thought you liked them on a slab before half an hour was up?"

"Shut it, or you'll have another five years," Vimes snarled. He turned. "I'll just leave the two of you to get comfortable, shall I?" He turned to address Carrot specifically. "Your sentencing will be tomorrow. I would hope, were I you, that I am in a better mood then."

"Ha," Vetinari contributed. "Very funny, your Highness." Vimes glared at him for a second, though Carrot half-consciously realized it was only a half-hearted sort of glare, before turning to leave. The door at the end of the cellblock swung open and slammed shut. Carrot stood there. His mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, and his senses were dull, like he was just sort of standing still, while the rest of the world drifted by. He was dimly aware that Vetinari had apparently slid down the wall with a quiet groan. He did the same, without even realizing it.

He wasn't sure how long he sat in the quiet. Occasionally Vetinari would cough, but otherwise the cells were dead silent. The shadows from the narrow, barred window had grown long when it finally broke.

"So how'd you do it?" Vetinari asked, slowly and loudly. Carrot started slightly.

"Uh? Oh, I, er, I went in with a crossbow."

"Hm. And he got it away from you, did he?"

"Yeah."

More silence. "You didn't get all the way up to him alone, did you?"

"No."

"Did you kill anybody?"

"Yes."

A long pause. "Well, if Vimes is dependable for anything, it's that he doesn't make anyone suffer. Not in death, anyway."

Carrot felt like frost was creeping up the walls of his stomach. He swallowed weakly and desperately cast his mind around for a distraction; something, anything. "You've been here for sixteen years?" He asked, finally. "Why are you here? Why didn't he kill you?"

Vetinari exhaled. "Not enough evidence for it to sit clean on his conscience. Some idiot burst into his office, killed his clerk, tried to kill him, obviously didn't. But he said I set him up for it. Brainwashed, type of thing. So Vimes didn't have any proof other than the assassin's word. Not exactly ironclad testimony."

"Did you?"

"Did I what? Tell the guy to kill Vimes? No." He coughed. "I didn't even know the guy's name. Still don't."

"What did you do before?"

A pause. "I was in the Watch."

Carrot tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Really?"

There was a snicker. "Why would I make that up? Here and now?" Carrot sat in silence for a minute, feeling more wretched by the second. "So why did you decide to usurp the King of Ankh-Morpork?"

"Because I was forced to. And I'm the rightful king, I guess."

There was a long pause. "You _guess_?" Vetinari coughed and when he'd recovered enough, he went on. "Listen, I know some nutters out there think they're descended from Lorenzo and all that, but it's never really an 'I guess' situation. So either you're only slightly insane, or you're telling the truth."

"I've got a birthmark," Carrot said quietly.

"I can't imagine with that kind of proof they didn't take you up on their shoulders and march you through the streets."

"And a family tree."

"Hmph." The sound of the door at the end of the block swinging open interrupted any remark that might have followed that, though. A guard made his way straight past Carrot's cell and stood in front of Vetinari. He was holding a sack.

"Hello," the guard said, smiling darkly. "Looks like it's time for supper." Vetinari didn't answer. The guard dropped the sack and laughed. "If you can reach it, you can eat." There was no movement, no suggestion that the other man was even going to try. And it was obvious enough why – there were few men in the world that had arms long enough the reach the sack where the guard had dropped it.

Carrot's eye twitched. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It wasn't what should happen. He got to his feet. "Why don't you just give it to him?" he asked, leaning on the bars. The guard snickered.

"You're the new kid, I take." He smiled widely. "His Highness ain't very happy with you."

Carrot ignored him. "I mean, it's not like he's going to do anything with it, other than, you know, eat it."

The guard took and breath and stepped closer to Carrot's cell. "I'm not sure you understand how things work here, kid. See, everyone has their place. Both of you –" he indicated the two cells by spreading his arms "are convicted felons. And I am Captain Downey." He winked, not very pleasantly. "That puts me above you, kiddo, and above him. So basically, I do whatever I please."

"Just give it to him," Carrot said firmly, something swelling up inside him. It wasn't a familiar feeling, but the whole day had been particularly odd, so he ignored it.

"Leave it, Carrot," Vetinari said quietly.

"There you are!" Downey crowed. "First sensible thing you've said in sixteen years, Vetinari, good man!"

Carrot's eyes narrowed and, without thinking much about what he was doing, he lunged through the bars and grabbed the hilt of Downey's sword, which was just in reach. The Captain shouted and tried to pull away, but that just freed the sword of the sheath. Carrot pulled. The sword came free, but not exactly how it should have. It seemed like there was distinctively _more_ sword than there was sheath, and when the tip finally came free, Carrot found himself holding a heavy longsword instead of the standard issue military arming sword. A lion was rearing on the hilt. Carrot fumbled the sword for a minute before grasping it firmly in both hands(1).

In the dim light still managing to come through the windows, it went _ting_.

Downey looked from the weapon to Carrot with something close to horror for a second before arranging his face into a sneer. "Can't do nothing with it but cut yourself up," he said carelessly, stepping out of range and making his way back out of the hall. "Kill yourself, see if I care." The door slammed shut. Carrot pulled the sword inside the cell and then knelt, using the blade the shove the sack closer to the bars next door. Vetinari really, really could not have cared less. He got as much of himself through the bars as humanly possible without breaking something, and fixed Carrot with a Look that would have made the walls talk, if they could.

"So let's have a look at that birthmark, then."

--=--

(1) That's what she said.

--=--

Reviews make me happy in the pants.

This chapter dedicated to: The internet; an enormous series of tubes, not a big truck.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Stunning – an update in under 5 years! OMG. We are getting into the final stretch, wee childrens, so hang on tight because this is where is starts to get cra-azy.

--=--

The thing about Ankh-Morpork is this: nothing stays secret for long. And no matter how well someone might think they have something locked up, and no one will ever know, it's only a matter of a few days before there is someone, somewhere who's heard of your quiet little tale, and would happily tell it to their mates over a pint. And the reason this remarkable phenomenon was possible was not that people told other people secrets – no, in Ankh-Morpork there were many, many people who were quite good at keeping secrets – it was that Ankh-Morpork, by some strange power, breeds stories and because its residents were usually sharply observant of anything and everything. Many secrets become public on the basis that they "could be true" and because they make a good story, and because someone noticed something that seemed just a tad . . . off. And more often than not, that good story turns out to be not technically just a story, and becomes a secret, or a legend.

And so it was, on the night of Carrot's failed assassination attempt that a secret started in a pub. A secret that told of a King returned to his city to refresh the fading line. A secret that told of one bold and noble and strong, who would never command your respect but who you would give it to nonetheless. He had a crown-shaped birthmark and any sword he touched became the long-lost royal sword of Ankh-Morpork. And it didn't matter if any of that was even remotely true, because it was just so rich. And it spread like wildfire.

When people were asked who told them about the King, they would almost all respond, 'A man in the pub,' which is about as iron-clad a source as you were going to get in time without Times. And the word 'almost' was used, because there was one man who, in fact, heard it from 'a beautiful young lady in the pub, who had worryingly pointy teeth and wore a collar,' and the dogs in the city all heard it 'on the howl'. And dogs, if anything, were more slaves to a good story than humans, and none of them bothered to check where the howl was coming from.

Well, almost none of them. Because that would make a better story.

--=--

Carrot had taken the time out of his busy night wallowing to tell his story, for which Vetinari was eternally grateful, if not any more enlightened. There were patches that didn't make sense, or didn't exist at all, and Carrot hadn't been able to fill them in. But for the most part Vetinari had gathered that he'd been a child the bandits had somehow found, and his name had been 'Earl' when they found him, and he had a funny birthmark. And, as children do, he'd grown, but as children do not often do, he was always happy to please everyone and was unnervingly good at making people do what he wanted them to do without complaint. People did things because he'd told them to.

He'd been asleep now for a while, and the other prisoner had retreated back to the remains of a mattress; at this point it was just a pile of old straw with a threadbare, hole-pocked ghost of a cover mixed in. He was just about to sleep on the day's bizarre progression of events when a voice drifted down from the window. He looked up.

"Woof woof, poor little doggie, looks like he needs to come in from the rain, woof." Vetinari hauled himself to his feet with a low wheeze and made his way over to the barred window. The grubby dog cocked its head. "Woof? Come on, it's pissing down," a fact of which Vetinari had been made aware since moving to the window – the leaky stones and hubwards-facing window were allowing more of their share of cold, misty dampness to make their way into the cell. Vetinari shivered and stretched up, grabbing the dog by the scruff of its neck and helping it fall gently to the floor of the cell below.

The dog regarded him for a beat before trotting over to the straw and curling up in the edge of it. Vetinari took up his usual place in the pile. There was silence for a while, during which the prisoner indicated through complicated sign language that this cellblock was no longer empty and keep it down unless you want trouble. The dog nodded in understanding.

"Strange news went up on the howl," the dog revealed, without preamble. "I came by to check for meself. Looks like the genuine arc-ticle next door, yeah?"

Vetinari's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "What? Did I miss a whole part of that or am I just slowly going insane?"

"Probably a bit of the second one," the dog conceded. "Well then, if I have to spell it out for you, there's word up on the howl that Ankh-Morpork has a King."

"Yes, his name's Vimes and he's a bit of a bastard," Vetinari mumbled. "Is that news just hitting the canine community?"

"No, don't be thick, I meant another King. A long-lost King, sort of deal. You heard that rumor?"

Vetinari gave the scruffy mutt a long look. "I might have heard something about it, yeah."

"Right," the dog said, apparently satisfied, "and you never hear about anything in account of you living in an underground cell, yeah?"

"I'd be obliged if you didn't mention that much."

The dog sniggered. "Just establishing the facts. And I noticed that you have a new neighbor, so me bein' a clever doggie put one and one together, y'see? So I'm thinkin' that muscley-armed bloke the next cell over is this other King that's been up on the howl."

"Could be," Vetinari answered noncommittally. "I wouldn't know. I'm not a . . . King-ologist or whatever sort of person puts all that together. And I don't much care for royalty."

"Well no, you wouldn't," the dog said dismissively. "That's a given, sure enough. You see his birthmark?"

"I – what?" Vetinari coughed and gave the dog a suspicious look. "Who told you about that? All that's up on the howl?"

"And more, my confined friend. Rightful King, has a crown-shaped birthmark, has buckets of krisma, whatever that is, and will come back bearing the true sword of Ankh. Or Morpork. Or maybe both, I forget the exact wording and it's all a bit difficult to translate, you know?"

"I'm sure I don't." Vetinari thought this over for a minute. "What about people? Are people talking about it?"

"Like it's goin' out of style," the dog whispered. "Everyone knows, or will know by dawn. S'amazin'."

"How?"

"Dunno how the people know, but some werewolf put it up on the howl and hey, it makes a great story." The dog's tongue lolled out and his ragged ears pricked in an unmistakable expression of canine excitement. "Makes it even better that it looks like it might be true."

But Vetinari was still back at 'werewolf'. He blinked and the dog could see pieces falling into place. Then the prisoner smiled in a way that wasn't entirely comforting, made all the more unnerving by the way the lopsided expression twisted its way onto his thin face. "Vimes won't be able to hang the boy in the morning. He should have had him on a slab within half an hour. Now he's sunk."

"What?" The dog trotted over to the bars and slunk through, giving Carrot a long, hard look. "Cor, he sure does look like a King, don't he?"

Vetinari lay back in the straw with a smile. "He sure does." The little dog watched the sleeping King for a while, and then trotted back into Vetinari's cell, curling up in the straw while the thin man slept. As he wriggled into the most comfortable position, his little scruffy tail wagged in unconstrained anticipation of what the next morning might bring.

Several floors up, out of the mist and the damp, the King was finishing up for the night when he heard the door to his office creak open. He looked up and smiled. "Hello, Sybil," he said quietly.

She dipped into a smooth curtsey. "Your highness." She caught Vimes's curious expression and frowned. "I'm afraid I've been sent along with some . . . some bad news, your highness."

Vimes sighed. "That's a shame then." He gestured to a well-cushioned armchair. "Have a seat, tell me about it."

Sybil sat and arranged her skirts before continuing. She'd been in service at the Palace for as long as Vimes had been on the throne, and she'd caught his eye. Of course, it was scandalous that they were even as close as they were, and Vimes was grateful for the discretion afforded by both Sybil herself and his personal staff. She'd gradually taken over the task of delivering bad news to Vimes, because while she herself did not consciously soften the blow, her presence alone was enough. She sighed. "Sir, it's . . . it's very bad I'm told."

"What is?" Vimes asked, leaning back.

"Well, sir, the news of the assassination attempt, of course, was pretty much all over the city within the first hour, and everyone was looking forward to a good hanging tomorrow morning."

Vimes nodded. "Of course they were."

"But, sir," she paused, as if unsure of how to go on. "Sir, I think a few of his cohorts escaped."

Vimes's eyes narrowed. Sybil couldn't have known that the Palace guard had detained and executed only two individuals, leaving three at large. It had been completely confidential, and as in the nature of such things, those guards who had done the detaining and the executing were in lockdown in the south corridors of the Palace until such a time as the King decided to let the news be made public. "What makes you say that?" he asked carefully.

"Well sir, people are talking," she said, and now she was rushing, as if she were in a hurry to get it all over with. "People in pubs and taverns and the like. Seems word has leaked about the assassin, sir, and that he's very . . . well, I suppose the best word would be 'royal'. There's stories about swords and birthmarks and krisma and his blood and, and . . ." She trailed off, waving her hands vaguely. Vimes digested this for a moment while she gathered herself. "Your highness, I don't think people are really looking forward to a hanging tomorrow anymore. I think they're going to come just to see the assassin for themselves."

Vimes sucked his teeth for a minute. "Huh," he said, staring off into space. He thought back to the young man who was now lying in a cell deep in the belly of the palace. 'Krisma,' in retrospect, didn't even begin to cover it. Even stuttering and blundering and being bloody stupid, Vimes had found himself drawn to the boy. Who knows how that would strike a populace waiting to see a king returned? He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Well, thank you Sybil. It's certainly not a good situation."

"Yes sir," she said quietly.

"I'll have to think about it," he sighed, smiling gently at her. "I have no orders to be passed on right now."

"Of course sir," she said. Vimes noted that she was not getting up to leave, though that was not necessarily a bad thing. "Sir, there was one other thing," she said meekly. "If I may, of course."

He waved a hand. "Obviously," he said. "What is it?"

"Well, it's not exactly official," she said slowly. "It's about the, er, the guard posted in the isolation block of cells."

Vimes sighed. "You're just as bad as Nobby, Sybil. I'd swear if I didn't know better that neither of you know the definition of 'isolation'."

She smiled thinly. "I just feel badly for him sir, and he's always been so polite. Anyway, Captain Downey has, um, well he's been exactly the opposite. I think he's been stealing, sir."

"Stealing?" Vimes smiled distantly, as if having a happy fantasy. "Oh, to catch that bastard out in something." Historically, the King had strongly disliked Captain Downey. He'd been taken into service at the Palace during Vimes's mother's rule and Vimes, despite his best efforts, had never been able to displace the man. "Is there any hard evidence?"

Sybil shrugged. "Nothing solid, and no one's talking. But he's been saying Vetinari's been refusing food for almost a month and a half now, and taking the food home for himself."

Vimes made a face. "Unfortunately, I think that falls more under the category of perks than stealing."

"Well, yes, I would agree," Sybil said, nodding, "_but_ you have to take into account the Sergeant von Lipwig – you know, the morning guard – hasn't taken any food home, because there isn't any food to take home, you see?"

"Aha." Vimes smiled thinly. "I see. Right, tell von Lipwig to find out what he can and that should be plenty, smarmy bastard that he is. And, yes, tell him to have a chat with both prisoners down there in the morning, preferably before sunrise because as of right now I fully plan to host a hanging in the morning. See what he can pick up off either of them."

"Yes, sir, of course." Sybil stood, curtseyed again, and backed toward the door. "I'll go straight away."

"And Sybil?"

She paused. "Your Highness?"

He cleared his throat. "If, ah, if you'd like to keep me updated as to the progress of the rumor of the . . . King, I'd be much obliged." He seemed to stop and think for a moment. "Of course, if you need to sleep or something, you don't have to. Er."

She smiled softly. "Of course, sir. I will let you know as soon as I hear any more."

"Excellent."

--=--

One of the least pleasant ways to wake up, overall, is by alarm clock. The digital kind, with the EHRN EHRN EHRN first thing in the morning.

Of course, this is Discworld, and thus far the digital alarm clock is nothing more than a darkest nightmare, lurking on the edge of consciousness, biding its time. So we move down the list, through 'having you arm gnawed off by a duck', and arrive at 'a loud metal clanging noise'.

Incidentally, this is how Havelock Vetinari woke up every morning, and was perhaps one of the factors that contributed to his positively sunny disposition. It was also routine, and as anyone can tell you routine is comfortable, even if it is, by its nature, uncomfortable(1).

Which was why, a few hours after the little dog's arrival, Vetinari almost jumped out of his skin when someone took the time to shake him awake. As it was, jumping is a bit much to ask of anyone first thing coming out of a deep sleep, much less a person that was actively starving, so he settled for a yelp, followed by a nice round of violent coughing.

Not, altogether, the best way to start the day.

"Alright, you're fine, settle down," someone hissed. Vetinari wheezed and tried to stop hacking, which was uncomfortable and worryingly difficult. He squinted in the dim light to the other person. Brass glinted. "Morning," the other person whispered.

"Lipwig?" Vetinari guessed.

"The one and only. Get up, we're going for a walk."

"What?" Lipwig didn't answer, instead helping Vetinari and up and guiding the very bemused prisoner down the cellblock, past the sleeping Carrot, and into a little room at the end of the block that he recognized as the guard station. It was empty, and more importantly, it was warm and dry. Lipwig pointed to one of the chairs crowded around the rickety old table, and sat down opposite the prisoner.

"Tea?" he offered. Vetinari gave him a long look.

"Am I being executed?"

The guard flashed a twenty-candle smile. "Nah, not today."

The prisoner raised his eyebrows. "O-kay," he said after a long pause. "So would you mind explaining, roughly, what the hell is going on here?" He thought for a minute before a slow smirk crept across his face. "It's about the kid, isn't it?"

"Nah, Vimes thought you needed more exercise."

"And tea?"

"Have a biscuit, you look like Death himself." Vetinari sat back in the chair and crossed his arms, openly skeptic. "Alright, fine, it's about Carrot, but I figured wouldn't hurt to conduct this little investigation somewhere a little more comfortable. And private," the guard added, pushing the biscuit tin across the table. "Go on, I'm not joking, please eat something."

The prisoner sighed and held back a cough. "Fine." He leaned back over the table, grabbed the top cookie and considered it for a minute. "You know on second thought a lot of sugar might be a bad choice."

"What? Why?"

Vetinari shrugged. "Dunno. Didn't your mother always yell at you about sugar?"

"Yeah, said it'd rot my teeth and made me hyper," the guard mused. "She was right."

Vetinari put the thing back. "In that case I'll skip. I don't have the energy for it."

Von Lipwig gave up. "Fine, your call. I offered."

"Thanks." They sat in silence for a minute before Vetinari cautiously went on. "So, er, what are you looking to find out?"

"Anything," the sergeant said idly. "Everything. About, oh, about his possibility of being a descendent of the old Royal line, specifically."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Does this matter all of a sudden?"

"Don't play stupid, I saw that dog in there," von Lipwig snapped. "You probably have a better idea than me what's going on out there – I come on at ten. Things aren't good, we'll put it that way." Vetinari watched him, utterly silent. The guard sighed and put his head in his hands. "People want to know for themselves. We've already caught seven people dumb enough to try and sneak in and see for themselves. The hanging tomorrow's going to be a mob scene."

"So Vimes can close it off."

"He declared it a closed execution four hours ago, didn't seem to make a difference. People are scaling the damn _walls_." He shook his head. "I tell you, people in this city are utterly mad about royalty."

"Seems to be the case," Vetinari said slowly. "Climbing the walls, eh?"

"There's no way the execution's going to be closed or even happen, the way things are going." The guard shrugged. "We just don't have the manpower here, even with the Watch. We'd have to barricade the whole city out."

"Don't do that," Vetinari said distantly. He was staring at the table, unseeing. "They want a king that bad, do they?"

"Seems to be the case."

"What about Vimes? Any threats?"

Moist thought about it for a minute. "You know, it's weird, not really. It's almost like everyone's waiting. To be sure."

"Good. That's good, at least." The prisoner smiled, apparently entertained by the whole situation. "Well well." And he told the sergeant everything, from the birthmark to the birthname to the sword. Moist listened, munching on biscuits. He got up and put another pot of tea on, and listened some more. When everything wound down he swallowed and allowed the prisoner opposite to take a gulp of tea.

"So what do you think?" von Lipwig asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Not really, but I'm interested now."

Vetinari coughed once, sniffed and shrugged. "I think he's the real deal. I mean, as far as I know. And I'm not an expert by any stretch of the imagination."

The sergeant leaned back. "I saw the sword in his cell before I picked you up. It does look convincing, doesn't it?"

"More so when you consider that it was Downey's standard-issue short sword right up until the kid touched it." Vetinari coughed and sat for a minute. "Vimes is going to have to abdicate."

Moist spluttered, just managing to swallow his tea. "Don't _say_ stuff like that; I'll be stuck on guard duty with you down in this damn cell block until you croak."

The thin man shrugged. "It's true. Think about it, right? The kid's the king, he's got . . . I dunno, what do you call it? Krisma? Something like that. People will know the minute they see him. And what's Vimes going to do then, with a whole city gone mad for its long lost king, and him being the only person in the way?"

"He's got the army and the Watch," the sergeant pointed out.

"And how many of them will be loyal to him?"

The other man made to speak right away but then stopped and considered it. "I . . . Well, the Watch, definitely, Keel practically raised the man and that still counts for something these days. He thinks the right way for the Watch too."

"And the army?"

"I'd imagine they'd back him. I can't think why not."

Vetinari coughed and went on carefully. "Well, I'm sure I don't know. But I wouldn't bet his life on it. People are going to go a bit mad, and that's putting it lightly I'm sure."

There was a shift in the air as the door swung open. Silhouetted against the grey light of the cellblock stood a wiry man that was, unfortunately, all too familiar. "And what would you have me do then?" he snarled with horrible amusement ringing in his tone. The king strode into the room, closing the heavy door behind him and sat down backwards in one of the chairs. He leered at the prisoner. "Go on, you're so smart, what would you recommend?"

"I – I don't know," Vetinari answered, very quietly. "I don't know enough about the variables."

Vimes barked out a laugh. "Too right you don't. You'd be wise to remember that in the future."

"Listen, your highness, it's my fault," von Lipwig cut in, saluting. He'd been at attention since the door opened, knocking his chair over in his haste to get up. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have asked him, I was out of turn, he wouldn't have said anything otherwise."

"Nonsense, von Lipwig, that's interrogation that is, well done." Vimes didn't look at the man as he said this, just smiled unpleasantly at Vetinari. Moist gave the prisoner a despairing look. "All these years I've given you the benefit of the doubt, kept you alive, ignored the breaches of isolation. And here you are, planning my overthrow." He spat. "I've haven't been kind, I've given you time."

"I wasn't planning anything," Vetinari said tightly. "I was just saying –"

"That's what they all say." He stood. "And I've heard enough from you. Sergeant, take this man back to his cell and give him whatever he wants. He's going to the gallows with the kid at dawn." Silence followed this declaration. Von Lipwig didn't move, and Vetinari blinked. Then, something snapped, and the thin man was on his feet, backing the king of Ankh-Morpork into a corner.

"You want to know what I want?" he snarled. Vimes was already in the corner before he realized what was happening, and the utter absurdity of the situation. "I want you to use your brain for forty-eight seconds instead of thinking with your muscles. I want you to think about what Keel would do. You can't solve everything by killing people; it's a waste."

"Stop it," Vimes warned.

"No," Vetinari growled. "Fine, I don't care what you do, kill me and the kid in the morning, and then, when your city overthrows you _you_ can personally let me know how your little slash and burn plan worked out for you." He gave Vimes a disgusted look. "What you can't understand, you kill. Why not think about it, try to control it? People are stupid, I'm sure you've noticed. You can control them. It doesn't have to end in a revolution."

"It's not going to," the king growled.

Vetinari's eyes glinted. "And you're so sure of it too. Think about it. People are scaling the walls to get in and see him. And think about the boy down there. You believed it too, or he'd be dead. He's changing the world around him, but he doesn't know it," he laughed dryly. "You take us to the gallows to the morning, he won't die. I'll probably die, you'll probably die, and the city will move on, long live the king."

Vimes watched him for a minute. "And how are _you_ so sure?"

The prisoner smiled thinly. "I've got nothing to lose; I'm dead either way."

At this point, Sergeant von Lipwig had crossed the room and put Vetinari in shackles. The man sagged, what energy he'd had spent for the time being. The guard was about to take him out of the room when Vimes held up a hand. "Stop," he said slowly. He crossed his arms and looked Vetinari up and down. "The Earl of Ankh thinks very highly of you, you know." The prisoner didn't respond, instead watching Vimes warily. "And as much as I distrust you, I have surprisingly high faith in Lord de Nobbs's judge of character." He sat at the table and gestured to the chair across from him. "Have a seat. If you're due to die in a couple hours it won't make much difference, I suppose." He watched von Lipwig helped the man into his seat. "Ask me anything about the city, I'll answer as well as I know. And then you tell me your plan, and what's so great about it."

Vetinari coughed and raised an eyebrow at the king. "Well I think for starters, the best part about it is that everyone lives."

--=--

(1) This explains why the author never orders anything other than General Tso's Chicken at Chinese restaurants. Even if at said restaurant it's called 'General Chicken,' which is infinitely more questionable(2).

(2) This, unfortunately, is a true story.

--=--

Time passed while Vetinari talked. After a span, the shackles were removed and more tea was made. And then, when he'd finished, Sergeant von Lipwig took him back to his cell and returned to the guard station, where the king was still sitting, his boots on the table and a pensive expression on his uncharacteristically stubbled face. Moist sat down, looking into his tea and, after a stretch of silence, said "It's quite a good plan, really."

Vimes exhaled deeply through his nose. "I know."

"It's crazy enough to work."

"Yeah."

"It's almost twisty enough to be one of Keel's finest."

"Nah, it's twistier."

"I'd put quite good odds on it . . ." the sergeant hazarded. And the king smiled mirthlessly.

"Are you kidding? It's a million to one."

And we all know how the story goes with those.

--=--

BAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA. It's looking like two, maybe three more chapters ladies and gents. Hold on to your panties, because at this point it's all being made up as I go.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: I _could_ write my 4-page essay on Plainsong. Or I could write this.

I think we all know what the right choice to make was in that particular situation.

--=--

Dawn came, washed-out, gray, misty. Carrot woke when he heard the rattling of wood wheels on the cobblestones above his cell. The door opened with the same nail-on-the-chalkboard scrape as before, and the guard standing there waved for him to come along.

"Don't I get a last meal?" the boy asked, getting stiffly to his feet. His eyes flicked to the broadsword on the floor.

"Don't think about it," the guard warned, catching the slight gesture. "And no. You're an assassin, sorry mate, typically they don't get the same treatment as everyone else."

"Oh," was all Carrot said, because there was nothing much more to say. So this was being hanged. He'd heard about it, even seen a hanging or two when the group had stopped in a civic-minded town for an early breakfast, but he'd never faced one. He rather wished he had, it might make for an easier escape attempt, or at least he'd have some expectation of how everything was supposed to go. The guard shackled his hands together behind his back and pushed him up against the wall. At the end of the block the door was wide open, two more guards standing casually in the way of any liberation attempts.

"You too," he distantly heard the other guard say, and found himself surprised to see Vetinari likewise shackled.

"I thought –" Carrot started, but the other man interrupted.

"Situations change," he said tightly. "It's how the world works."

A wave of pity washed over the younger man. All those years, to be hung afterward because of some out-of-control situation. He sighed.

"It was your fault, you know," Vetinari said casually, almost cheerfully as the two of them were pushed out of the cellblock. The bottom dropped out of Carrot's stomach. "If you'd never come along I'd still be looking forward to dying in a pile of straw."

"How's it my fault?" the younger man asked, suddenly feeling gut-wrenchingly guilty.

"Oh, you know, I know too much." Carrot was perplexed as to why the other man didn't seem as upset about this as he by all rights should have. Then again, perhaps after all that time death was something to be looked forward to. "Could be dangerous to the city and all."

"I'm sorry," Carrot said faintly. The guards had since pushed the two of them up a ramp and into the back of a darkened cart. It rocked as the horses hauled it into motion and trundled along the cobbles. Carrot thought for a moment. "It's not fair," he said quietly.

"Well you did try to kill the king," Vetinari pointed out, coughing.

"No, not me, that's all well and good. You." Carrot sniffed. "That's not fair. You never did anything."

"Allegedly," the guard riding with the two of them muttered, his helmet pulled low over his eyes.

"Well, I suppose that's just the way the world works," Vetinari answered faintly, leaning back against the wood planks.

"It shouldn't be."

"No?"

"No. Someone should speak up."

"Huh." Vetinari turned to the guard. "What's the likelihood of that, you reckon, Sarge?"

"Not very," the guard snickered. "Buggered if I'm saying anything for you."

"There you have it," Vetinari said, coughing and shivering as the mist penetrated the cart with the sort of brainless determination unique to Morporkian weather. The rest of the cart ride was relatively silent, Vetinari off in his own thoughts, the guard dozing, Carrot lost in the injustice of it all. The young man wasn't sure how long it was before the cart jerked to a stop. Then the doors were opened, and the guard bundled the two of them out into the damp and under the scaffold. Carrot became aware of a hum, like he was in the middle of a beehive.

"Sounds like you're going to have quite the crowd," the guard murmured, a low tone of amusement running through his voice. "Should be good. I suppose everyone – ha – wants to get a look at the King. Kings, really."

"Kings?" Carrot asked. He felt like he was floating, only half-aware of everything around him – the guard, his own voice, the hang . . . hanglady? giving Vetinari a quick study before pulling a length of rope down from a bar.

"You're a skinny bastard, aren't you?" she – oh gods, it _was_ a woman – observed.

"Can't be helped, darling," the other man said smoothly.

"Call me that again and I'll smack you as well as hang you," she said, though there was no meanness to her tone. Vetinari smirked.

"Vimes himself has decided to be in attendance today," the guard told Carrot as Vetinari and the hanglady were gods help him _flirting_. Carrot was vacillating wildly between hysterical amusement at the absurdity of the whole situation and blind terror. "Lucky you."

"Have you met Sergeant von Lipwig?" Vetinari was saying to the woman, as if the whole hanging were a minor inconvenience or some kind of tailoring session or something. "He's really quite charming. About your age, too, I'd guess," he added.

"We've met," she said stiffly. "How are you today, Sergeant?"

The guard froze, caught unawares. "Er, uh. Hi, Adora." There was a long pause in which she tied a knot without looking and raised an eyebrow. "Oh! Uh, yeah, I'm good. It's a bit nasty out today, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "Better to get hung, though, on a day like today than a sunny day. Less depressing. Alright, Skinny, we'll do you first." She turned to Carrot. "And you're supposed to be the long-lost King, yes?"

"Uh, yeah, I am," Carrot heard himself saying. "I've got a birthmark."

"Stunning," she sighed.

"He's got a sword too," Vetinari added. "Well, actually, it was Downey's sword, but who's keeping track?"

"You are, I can see," she said dryly, pulling a length of rope down and fastening a rather larger knot in it. "And you, Your Highness, will be the feature attraction today, it seems. You've drawn a big crowd."

"So I'm told."

She sniffed. "Well, I'll have no funny business on my scaffold. Moist, can you manage that?"

"Huh?"

She pursed her lips. "I'll take that as a yes. Right, time to go then. Let's get this over with." Carrot walked up the stairs onto the scaffold, feeling as if he were a child's balloon, floating along, being tugged without any say. Vetinari was still making a spirited attempt at either charming her out of hanging him or fixing her up on a date with the Sergeant, or possibly both.

"He quite likes you, you know," he was saying. "Talks about you all the time."

"Would you shut up?" Moist snapped, annoyed.

"Does he now?" Adora smiled. "Well, isn't that interesting. If you're not careful, I might feel bad about hanging you."

"Well, you could always not hang me," Vetinari said hopefully.

"Nice try. Hood?"

He thought. "Yeah, why not?"

She nodded. "Last words?"

"Oh, I dunno," he said lightly. "So long, thanks for all the fish?"

She snorted. "I'll make sure they write that one down for you." And she pulled the hood down. Carrot looked away, the whole thing was just too impersonal, too cold, and looked out over the crowd. It was . . . huge. And people were craning to see, though he was still on the stairs, so they probably couldn't see much more than a shock of red hair. And there was Vimes, crown sitting not-quite-straight, slouching slightly from the platform beside the scaffold. Guards surrounded him and were, incidentally, ringing the scaffold.

Vetinari was on the trapdoor now, eerily still. Adora slung the rope around his neck and tightened it or whatever it was the she needed to do to make sure the whole thing worked properly. And then Moist nudged the boy in the back and he stepped up the stairs.

A ripple ran through the crowd. _It's him_. People craned their necks and stood on tiptoe, children were seated on their parents' shoulders, and Vimes watched it all with an unreadable expression. Carrot took a step back. And, almost as a sideline to the appearance of Carrot, Adora pulled the lever. Vetinari dropped.

And inside Carrot a wave of emotion burst forth, roiling in his belly and making his heart pound. The unfairness, the injustice that an innocent person should be put to death because of one man's paranoia, the sheer insanity that that same innocent person's death was a footnote to his appearance, the desire to _make them see right_. And so he grabbed von Lipwig's sword. The guard hardly had the time or, when it came down to it, the sheer physicality necessary to stop him.

The lengthening of the blade, the gold and steel appearing, slithering and weaving onto the hilt, the _ting_ wasn't new to Carrot, not this time. To the crowd, to Vimes, to the guards, it was miraculous.

More importantly, it was _proof_.

Several things happened all at once. The crowd gasped collectively, the guards around the scaffold drew their crossbows, Vimes jumped to his feet, losing the crown in the process, the Royal Sword of Ankh-Morpork sliced neatly through the taught rope on the scaffold, Adora snapped the trapdoor shut, and, below, out of sight of everyone, Vetinari hit the ground with a thump, a crack, and a breathless litany of swearwords.

"_STOP_!" Vimes shouted. The guards' fingers almost creaked audibly as they froze in their path to pulling their triggers.

"You see, this is what I was talking about," Adora grumbled to Moist in the sucking silence. She looked over the sword and considered how the future might go. "Sir," she added, just in case.

Vimes was watching Carrot. "Why?" he asked finally, and in a city of a thousand souls it was perfectly heard.

Carrot looked from the king, crownless, to the crowd, and out over the city. Broad Way and Ankh-Morpork beyond, gray, damp and odiferous, yawned open before him and held its breath.

"Because," he said finally, and took a breath. "He shouldn't have died." You could have heard a pin drop in the silence, which was why, incidentally, anyone close to the scaffold might have heard a muffled '_Oh buggery that was my rib_'. The guards looked reproachfully to the scaffold. "It wasn't fair."

"No?"

Carrot paused. Above, the wet sunlight made an attempt to shine through the clouds. The sword went _ting_, and the world bent. "He never did anything," he said and now the sun was making it through. The crowd didn't move. "He was innocent. He just thought differently, not dangerously. And he shouldn't have died for it." When no one said anything, his chest swelled and he plunged on, not conscious of what he was saying.

And a hundred years and more of history _pushed_.

"You can't rule the city paranoid and suspicious, never suspicious. You have to assume people will do the best thing for them, which surprisingly is the right thing a lot of the time." He turned to the crowd. "Isn't that right?"

It started as a murmur. And then from the back, rolling across the crowd, came the reply '_Most of the time, yeah_'.

"It's the watch's job to watch the people that don't," Carrot went on, fumbling with the words but saying them with feeling, with the bottled emotion of years of repressed nobility and fury at the way people treated each other. "The king doesn't do that. The king watches the city and takes care of it, the whole thing. Not just his little bubble."

'_Right_,' the crowd breathed. '_He's right_.'

And as the rubber sheet of reality bowed to Carrot, Moist slipped down the stairs, unnoticed, and found what he was looking for below the scaffold. "It's working," he whispered frantically. "I can't believe it, but it's working."

"Is it?" Vetinari wheezed, fingering the purple and green bruise that was already ringing his neck. "I think he bloody broke my rib."

"It's all a load of mumbo jumbo, about the king looking out for the city and the watch looking out for the people but they're buying it Vetinari, they're _buying it._" He looked, frantic, to the thin slats in the front of the scaffold. Sunlight was streaming through them now. "And the weather's gone all psychotropic, oh gods we're in trouble."

"No, we're not," Vetinari coughed, suppressing it enough that the wood muffled it to the outside. "We're fine, as long as Vimes comes through on his end of the whole thing."

"What about the guards?"

"What about them?"

"What if they do something?"

Vetinari groaned quietly as he rolled onto his side, presumably the one without the broken rib. "We hope royalty boy up there lives through it," the prisoner breathed. "Now go up there and keep an eye on things."

Moist made his way back to the stairs while Vetinari lay there, listening to Carrot's muffled speech. The crowd was still listening, at rapt attention. Even Vimes had gone a bit glazed over.

"The king should be there when you need him," Carrot was saying, arms spread. _Bloody hell_, though Moist, _he looks the part, even dressed like that. We are in trouble, oh yes._ "When you don't need him, he shouldn't meddle!" This drew a cheer from the crowd. He was getting on like a house on fire. At least, he was, until someone spoke up.

"Prove it." It was quiet, but it spread across the crowd like wildfire. Carrot, Moist, Vimes, Adora, and the collected populace of the twin cities looked to the speaker. It was Captain Downey, and he looked completely unconvinced as he sighted down his crossbow. "They say you're the true King of Ankh-Morpork. You should be able to prove it."

"Look what he did to my sword!" Moist found himself saying. "And he did it to yours last night!"

Downey shrugged, though he did look a bit embarrassed. "Could be trickery, illusion. Cure the sick, raise the dead. Kings are supposed to be able to do that."

"Er," Carrot said slowly. "O-kay. Is, er, is anyone sick?" There was a murmuring. The spell was breaking, fast. Moist thought.

"We've got a dead body handy," he said suddenly, loud enough to be heard over the conversation in the first few rows. People passed it on and, once again, everyone's eyes were fixed front. Moist rushed below once more. "Havelock, we've got a problem," he hissed. "Downey wants him to cure the sick or raised the dead, the mystical crap like that."

Vetinari looked skeptical. "The sword trick didn't do it?"

"No, they want more."

Vetinari paused. "Well I'm sick enough, I guess, I could fake being miraculously healed." He coughed. Moist looked doubtful and then smirked.

"Close, but not what I had in mind."

"Well considering the only other option is – oh." Vetinari's eyes widened and he grinned broadly. "_Oh_."

"Raise the dead?"

"Let's do it," he said, gingerly slumping back. "Just don't bang my head on the stairs on the way up."

Moist dragged the man's limp body up the stairs, and onto the scaffold, depositing him at the forefront. He looked satisfactorily dead, and Moist nodded to Carrot. "You're the King, you raise him."

"Uh." The towering boy looked sheepish. "I don't know how. I've never done it before."

"What? Ah." Moist rubbed the back of his neck.

A trail of smoke drifted across them. "I think you just lay on hands and say something powerful like 'rise, O faithful citizen,'" Adora said dryly, smoking her cigarette.

"Er, right." Carrot knelt next to the man's prone body and, feeling awkward, grabbed him by the neck.

"Maybe not there," Moist said helpfully. "He was hanged, you know."

"Um, yes, of course." Carrot moved his hand down to the rough shirt, settling on the stomach as the least embarrassing place to touch the corpse. He gathered himself, and then mustered up his best booming voice. Above, Vimes was watching with some degree of fascination. "Rise, O ye innocent," Carrot proclaimed, "so that you didn't die unjustly." Nothing happened. Carrot waited and Moist panicked, wondering if something had gone wrong during the dragging process. "Now." Carrot commanded, and it was a good command. Wars were started with commands like that, and they were ended with commands like that.

With a gasp, Vetinari lurched up in to a sitting position, grabbing the front of Carrot's shirt and steadying himself. The crowd drew back and then leaned in. "I died," he coughed.

"Yes, you did," Carrot said, eyebrows raised, leaning backwards slightly. "But, uh, you're alive now." He leaned in. "Right?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Do I look alive?"

"You're breathing."

"Then that's good enough for me."

"Bloody hells," Downey muttered. "Now we have to hang him again." Carrot turned sharply to Downey and got to his feet, hauling Vetinari along with him. "Erm, I mean, well done. Sir."

The crowd looked and watched. Nervously, Vetinari waved a little. He hated being at the center of attention, and the fact that he was in the middle of the focus vortex Carrot managed to create around himself made it all the worse. "He's alive!" someone called at the back of the crowd. "He raised him!"

There was muttering through the crowd.

And finally, the current king spoke. Vimes crossed his arms and regarded Carrot haughtily. "You say you have a birthmark?"

Carrot nodded. "Shaped like a crown."

"And a family tree?"

"Yessir."

Vimes sighed. Around him, the guards watched nervously as the man scowled. Then, he bent to retrieve his fallen crown and looked at it ponderously. "Well then," he said, apparently reaching a conclusion. "I see no other option." He tossed the crown to Carrot. "I abdicate to you . . . Carrot." He smiled thinly.

"Oh, come on, just like that?" Downey exclaimed, lowering his crossbow. And then, catching himself, he added "Your highness. Or . . . not. Sir."

Vimes shrugged and looked out over the crowd. He spread his arms. "Who would you call your king?" he called. "Who would you look to to rule you?"

"Can you raise the dead?" one citizen called.

"No," Vimes answered.

"Oh, well then, him."

Vimes nodded. "The first Vimes, Stoneface, was rather infamous for saying 'the Vimes line will rule until there is one more fit,'" he said, and the crowd listened. "You all seem to think this lad is more fit for the job." He breathed. "What's to say he isn't?" And then, like something out of a dream, the king of Ankh-Morpork bowed to the King, and Carrot placed the crown on his own head.

The sun shone. And the crowd, acting on instinct, rose up and called _Long Live the King!_

--=--

It would go down in history as 'The Bloodless Revolution', because, remarkably, it was. Vimes abdicated, Carrot stepped in, and that seemed to be that, as far as the citizenry was concerned. Life went on.

Well, almost. The Watch and army were so displeased with the sequence of events that they threatened to overthrow Carrot almost immediately, albeit in a slightly more civil way than normal.

--=--

"You'll what?" Carrot asked from behind the king's desk. He'd only been king three hours and already he was dealing with this. And then, apparently, there was to be a city council meeting, although he'd been assured by his clerk that it would be a 'meet and greet' situation, so that the council members could ascertain exactly who the new king _was_.

"We shall kill you, your highness," the watchman said, saluting. His name was Gero, and apparently he was the head watchperson at the moment. "Sorry, sir, but most of the watch doesn't buy into that raising the dead business. No offense."

"None taken," Carrot said distantly. "So, uh, what are your demands then?"

"Put Vimes back in charge."

Carrot raised his eyebrows. "But he abdicated." He turned to Vimes, who was sitting in a chair behind the throne, arms crossed. "That's what that means, right? Unconditional surrender?"

"Historically, yes."

"So why are you still here, sir?" the watchman asked politely. There was no threat to it, just mild interest.

"Training," Vimes said dryly. "I can't just drop the boy in it."

The watchman reflected, in the privacy of his own head, that after fighting as a mercenary in a number of other country's revolutions, he vastly preferred the kind with the killing. It made more sense.

"Listen, boys, I'm sure we can sort this out," Vimes sighed. "No one make any rash decisions here."

"I wasn't about to," Carrot muttered defensively.

"It occurs to me," Vimes said slowly, "that the army and the Watch are effectively two branches these days. They both answer to the king, but well. We all know how that goes."

"Do we?" Carrot asked, feeling like the odd man out. Which, effectively, he was. He'd just gotten into town yesterday, after all. And now look at him. King. The only people he'd met were Vimes and Vetinari and that guard and the hanglady.

"But if there were another office . . ." Vimes said, and let it hang in the air. The watchman nodded.

"That both answered to. And that answered to the king."

Carrot blinked. "I see," he said slowly, turning the idea over in his mind. "Could be dangerous."

Vimes shrugged. "No more dangerous than the Commander of the Watch and the General in Chief of the army getting together over lunch talking about a regime change. Less dangerous, in that there's only room for one person to go crazy."

"Good point," Gero said loyally.

Carrot looked from Vimes and back to Gero and the assembled watchmen behind him. "Well, I can see how this is going," he said.

"Let the large group of armed men win," Vimes advised. "Or at least compromise with them."

Carrot shrugged. "Fine." Gero blinked. "I mean, if that makes everyone happy."

"I think we could live with that, yeah," Gero said slowly.

"And I'm not unemployed," Vimes said, settling back into the chair. "But you watch that making everyone happy, you'll go crazy trying it all the time."

"Is that training or just general advice?" Carrot asked.

"Whatever."

"Right, uh, so that's that, I guess," Carrot said. He looked from Vimes, who shrugged, to Gero who did likewise. "Is that it? Do I have to say 'let it be done' or something?"

Vimes smirked. "No, this is the part where you have the clerks put it all in official language for you and then sign it."

"Right away, sir," said the clerk who was stationed by the door. He ducked out.

"Uh, right. Thanks?" Gero hazarded before saluting and leaving. Several of the watchmen spared the king and Vimes puzzled looks as they left. Sybil ducked in, carrying a tray of tea. The door shut.

"This is weird," Carrot groaned, his head thunking down onto the desk.

"You're telling me," Vimes scoffed. He thanked Sybil for the tea and went on as she made her way about the office. "It's a bit more complicated than I anticipated as well, I have to say."

"I just can't figure it out," Carrot lamented. "This was a bad idea."

"You can't go back on it."

"No." he sighed. "But I'm not cut out for governing. It seemed easy at first but . . . But."

"Yeah. But."

The office was silent. Carrot leaned back and sipped at his tea. "It would be easier if there was some kind of evil genius, huh?" He chuckled. "Someone like that, plotting and stuff, all behind the scenes."

"And what? Leave you to do the hand-waving and kissing babies while they dealt with the running of the city?" Vimes nodded slightly and sneered. "That would be nice. Tough luck though – no one sane would want that job."

Sybil coughed quietly. It was discreet but both men turned to her. "Well I don't know about sane." She paused. "Or evil. But I could think of someone."

Vimes scoffed before his eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. "Oh my gods. Where is he?"

Sybil smiled softly. "With any luck, he hasn't found a fast coach out of the city."

--=--

It was several hours before Vimes received report of the whereabouts of Ankh-Morpork's most wanted. He practically ran there, and when he stood outside the door, he paused, straightened his chainmail and went in. The cellblock was the same as always, damp and cold and altogether unwelcoming.

He stood outside the cell, and crossed his arms, standing in the doorway. The door was wide open. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

Vetinari was laying on his back in the straw looking at the ceiling, a funny little smile on his face. "Where else would I go?"

"Home. Genua. Anywhere."

"Oh, right," Vetinari coughed, wincing. "With all my money."

Vimes sighed. "Alright, maybe not." He leaned against the doorframe and stood in silence for a minute. "That was a nice little theatrical you pulled up there today."

"You liked it? It wasn't my idea."

"Wasn't it?"

"Nah, von Lipwig thought of it."

Vimes looked over his shoulder, as if he'd had a thought. "Is he around? He should be on about now, shouldn't he?"

"I told him to take the night off, take that hanglady out for a drink." Vetinari shrugged, and then winced. "Your golden boy broke my rib today, by the way."

"He's not my golden boy. And I didn't think he'd cut you down."

"Neither did I. Elsewise I would have told you to put some kind of padding down there. I'm not, ah, naturally well-endowed in that area at the moment."

"No," Vimes said. "I can see that. You want something to eat?"

"You want to tell me why you're down here talking to me?" Vetinari looked at Vimes from the straw, eyebrow raised.

Vimes shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, I kept you alive. You can say that much."

Vetinari shrugged. "Yeah, you can." Silence. A gust of wind whipped through the block. "Did you ever believe it?"

". . . No." Vimes sighed. "Not really. But I didn't know. I couldn't be sure. Either way." Rain, back after its morning break, pattered onto the floor of the cell. "I'm sorry for it."

Vetinari nodded. "Good."

"Let me make it up to you." Vimes exhaled through his nose, shoulders sagging. "Or let me try, anyway."

Vetinari closed his eyes and settled his hands on his stomach. "I'm listening."

"We can start with food. And a doctor." He shrugged. "You can live here, or upstairs if you'd prefer. You know, with a bed and a proper window and carpeting. Posh stuff like that."

Vetinari waved a hand. "Less sarcasm, if you please."

Vimes sighed. "Right. And there's a job in it for you. If you want it."

Vetinari didn't move or open his eyes, but he raised his eyebrows. "I can't say that if it's in your Watch I'm very interested, Commander."

"It's not – wait, how did you know that?" Vimes asked, mentally crashing to a halt.

"Lucky guess."

"Huh." Vimes coughed and swung back on track. "But no, it's not in the Watch. Or the army. Carrot's offering it, actually. I just suggested you for the job." Vetinari didn't seem ready to say anything so Vimes went on. "It's like, I don't know what to call it." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You want to run the city?"

Vetinari smiled now, and turned to look at the map of Ankh-Morpork, drawn in charcoal, smudged and runny. "I thought you'd never ask."

--=--

Chapter ending because it's wayyyy tooooo longgggggg hahaha. One more chapter and an epilogue for further lulz times. And then, ladies and kiddos, we are DONE. And it'll be time for fun! In the sun, even!

Or I could just finish Diplomatic Piracy, whateverrrrr.

And really, as much as I appreciate all your favorites and everything, really, it's touching, reviews are nice too. Poor Gogol is doing all the work for you guys, okay, and it's not fair to ask her to do that. Woman's got fanfic of her own to work on hahaha. ilu bbs.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Yayyyyy I got bored.

--=--

"So d'you have an official title yet or is your office still in naming limbo?" asked Vetinari, who was slumped up against the wall on the sixth floor landing. Vimes, sitting opposite the man, looked pensive.

"Commander General, I think Carrot decided on," he said finally.

"That's nice, getting the army and the watch in there," Vetinari wheezed. Vimes shrugged and gave him a long look.

"Are you ready to move again? I don't have all night."

"You're sure I can't just sleep here?"

"Positive."

The thin man coughed and then shrugged. "Fine." Vimes hoisted him up and the two of them managed the last two flights all in one go, Vimes half-carrying the smaller man by the time they reached the top. "It had to be the eighth floor, didn't it?" Vetinari groaned as Vimes tugged him down the hall.

"It's the safest place," Vimes said, shrugging.

"Why?"

"I dunno."

"See it's that kind of sound reasoning that I really enjoy," Vetinari grumbled. Vimes ignored him and pushed open a door into an empty room. It wasn't very large, but it served. The bed was made, just in case, but that was all the luxury the room afforded. Vimes, satisfied, pushed Vetinari in the general direction of the bed and lit a candle.

"A doctor's been called for," Vimes said into the silence. He looked over to the former prisoner, who was sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, expression unreadable. "Supposedly one of the best in the city." He allowed himself a smirk. "And by that I mean, he wasn't trained in the city."

The two sat in silence for a minute before voices became audible as someone approached. Shortly thereafter, Sybil appeared in the doorway. She waved. "The doctor, Sa – sir." Behind her, the doctor leaned around the door. Vimes blinked.

"Thanks, Sybil," he said distantly. Sybil curtsied and vanished the way she'd come. The doctor stepped into the room. Vetinari raised his eyebrows.

"Doctor Leike," the very definitely she said, extending her hand. Vimes, still stunned, shook it. She had a faint hint of a Genuan accent, though it had faded from her years in the city.

"I forgive you for everything, Vimes," Vetinari said faintly. Leike looked over her shoulder to him.

"Is that the patient?"

"What? Oh." Vimes shook himself. "Yes. Yes, that's him."

Her mouth set in a thin line, a hint of a frown pulling at the edges. "And he was your responsibility, your mistress told me?"

"Yeah, he – wait, what?" Vimes caught sight of her expression and backpedaled. There were things he wasn't prepared to deal with, former king or not, and an angry Dr. Leike was clearly one of them. "Yes, he, er, he was a prisoner. He tried to kill me."

"No I didn't."

"Fine, he didn't," Vimes said tersely, glaring at Vetinari around the woman. "But there wasn't sufficient evidence to prove it either way."

"There wasn't any evidence at all."

"Enough," Leike said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Your hi – sir. Ness. I would be obliged if you would leave now. There is a confidentiality between a doctor and a patient that must not be violated."

"Is there?" asked Vimes, genuinely surprised. "Ah, right," he added, catching her expression. "Of course there is. Er." And, deciding that this could not possibly get more awkward, he left.

Dr. Leike closed the door behind him and turned to Vetinari. "You look horrible," she said, without preamble.

"I appreciate the honesty," Vetinari replied.

"You were the man that was raised from the dead this morning?"

"Yes."

She fought a small smile and shrugged, setting down the large black bag she'd brought with her down on the desk. "I'm afraid I'm not really the sort to believe in fairy tales. Why didn't the new king cure you while he was at it?"

Vetinari shrugged. "Can't do everything at once, I suppose."

"And Vimes had a change of heart and decided not to kill you?" She turned around, hands full of all sorts of strange and slightly frightening instruments. Vetinari counted at least two needles among them. He inched over as she set them down on the bed. "You must be very important."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"Of course not. Open." She brandished a thermometer. Vetinari watched the little glass tube warily.

"Aren't those full of mercury?"

"It's how they work, yes."

"And correct me if I'm wrong but isn't mercury argh," he concluded unexpectedly when she shoved the tube into his mouth. He watched her sullenly as she pulled felt under his chin for a pulse and counted out the seconds. She frowned.

"Much too low," she murmured. Vetinari watched as she pulled the thermometer out of his mouth and read the temperature, frowning more deeply. She looked to him and back to the thermometer. "You're sure you're alive?"

Vetinari shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Right," she said. "You're starving, so much is obvious. Do you have trouble breathing?"

"A, er, a bit, yeah."

She nodded. "Take a deep breath."

He paused. "I'd rather not."

"No?"

"Wonder Boy broken my rib today when he oh-so-thoughtfully cut me down. I'm told," he added as an afterthought.

"Of course you were," she smirked. "Although I imagine I'd be able to tell if you just took your shirt off, we'll do this properly." She felt down his ribs and nodded. "It's not bad."

"It hurts an awful lot."

"They do," she said lightly. "It will heal. Take a deep breath."

He did so, and ended with a violent coughing fit. She stood and watched and when he'd finished she held out a handkerchief. "Spit," she commanded. He did so. She observed. "Hm." She pulled another tool out of the pile. It looked like a hearing trumpet, and without so much as a word of warning she pressed it up against his chest. "Breathe." He did. She nodded, adjusted the thing and told him to breathe again and stood back. "You have pneumonia," she said, depositing the thing back into her bag. "Not badly, but you've got it." He waited as she re-organized the contents of the bag. "You need to cough to clear out the infection, which unfortunately is not going to be comfortable. But you must do so, I cannot stress this enough. You also will need to eat as much as you can. I will speak to the cooks. But, astoundingly, you should live."

"Really?" To his own surprise, he hadn't been expecting to hear that.

She turned, smiling. "Yes. You are not in good shape, but it's good enough I suppose."

"Oh, good," he said as she scooped up the needles from the bed and turned back to her bag. He admired her for a minute before breaking the silence. "Have you, er, been in the city a while then?"

"Some time," she said lightly. He watched her back as she dug around in the bag. She was slim, and olive-skinned, with dark hair and a face entirely too pretty to be doing what she was doing. Not that he minded. He guessed her to be in her thirties, maybe a little older, but it was hard to tell. And, most importantly, she was not wearing a very crucial piece of jewelry on her left ring finger.

"You have children?" he asked innocently.

"I am not married," she said after a pause. She turned, smiling sweetly, a glint in her dark eyes. "That was your question, wasn't it?"

"No, uh, I mean, well." He coughed. "Yes, actually, that was the underlying question."

She sighed. "Mr. Vetinari, I am not interested."

"No? _Oh_." He looked over her warily. "You, er, you don't –"

"No, no, not like that," she laughed. It was a nice laugh. "Everyone always assumes that though. You know, pretty girl from Genua, not married. People talk."

"What's your first name?" He blurted out before he could stop himself. Well, to be fair, it had been a _very_ long day.

"Layla."

"Layla Leike?"

"My father was a poet, he loved alliteration." She turned to face him and approached. While the less evolved portions of Havelock's brain were focusing on her hips, the frontal lobe was mainly screaming '_She's got a needle!_' repeatedly. "If you hold still, this will not hurt too much," she said, businesslike.

"Is that strictly necessary?" he asked, inching into the corner. She slid onto the bed. "I mean, I can eat and cough. I'm good at eating and coughing. Nothing to worry about there, ha. And I've got sleeping down pretty good too at this point." He yelped as she grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him up against the wall, leaning her shoulder into his chest. He wheezed. "I could cough on you, you know," he threatened.

"I wouldn't do any good," she said matter-of-factly, grabbing his arm.

"Couldn't we talk about this? I mean, I'm a very important person as of forty-five minutes ago. I'm pretty sure I could get some money if that's what you wanted. We could make this all go away."

She looked to him, trying very hard indeed not to smile. "Money could make your vitamin deficiencies go away?" She squirted some fluid out of the end of the needle. "I'm not trying to kill you, don't worry. This is a simple remedy."

"No but oh gods argh there it goes," he groaned as the needle went in. His eyes rolled back and she laughed quietly to herself as he went limp against her shoulder.

"The squeamish ones are always who you'd least expect," she said softly, pulling the empty syringe back and extracting the needle.

"'M not squ-whatever," he mumbled, slouching over into the corner when she removed her shoulder. "Jus', jus' . . . m'tired. Fuzzy."

"Don't try to talk," she said warmly, putting the dirtied needle into a case and dropping the case back into the bag. She snapped the bag shut and turned back to him. He was completely limp, almost boneless-looking, slumped over. He tried to focus on her and she walked back over, helping him lie down in a more comfortable position. "You're just passing out a little, you'll be fine in a few minutes." She watched as he coughed violently again and frowned. "I will be back in a day or so, try to rest."

She walked out of the room then, and found a servant. She spoke to him about getting a fire lit in the room's small grate, and keeping the window open very slightly to let fresh air in. Halfway down the hall she realized she'd left her bag and went back for it. When she entered the room again she found Vetinari on the floor, wrapped up in the duvet. She frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Bed's too soft," he grumbled. She rolled her eyes.

"Is not," she countered. "Now get back in there and I don't want you out for the next few days at least. Read a book or something when you get bored. Or learn to read," she added, remembering that this was Ankh-Morpork after all.

"I can read," he muttered, flopping back into the bed. "I'm not stupid." She smiled gently and picked up her bag, heading out of the room.

"No, I rather thought not," she said softly as she closed the door behind her.

--=--

One floor down and one wing widdershins, the former king and a maid were enjoying a coffee while Vetinari was getting poked, prodded and stuck. Vimes leaned back into the chair in front of the fire and looked over to Sybil, who was munching on a biscuit. "It's all very odd, isn't it?" he asked finally. She nodded.

"It went as well as it could have, considering," she answered. "No one was killed, and the majority of the populace seems quite happy with how things worked out."

"Yeah, they do. Weird." Vimes looked contemplatively into the fire. "I wonder how long they'll stay that way."

"Oh, knowing how Havelock tends to work things, a good long time. He'll have them all confused by the end of next week, and no one will be smart enough to figure out how to be unhappy."

"You seem very sure," Vimes reflected. "But think about it, he's never done anything other than be fairly clever and have some good ideas."

"He orchestrated the first bloodless transfer of power in the history of the city."

"Well, yeah," Vimes muttered. "But how many more maneuvers like that does he have in him? Or was that the masterpiece?"

Sybil shrugged and moved over, seating herself on the arm of Vimes's chair. She rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. "I suppose you and the new lad will just have to muddle through then."

"I suppose so." They stopped talking, and the room was silent except for the crackling of the fire. Sybil slid down into the chair next to him and leaned up against him, her eyes drifting shut. He did likewise, and muttered, as he drifted off to sleep, "I'm not titled anymore."

"Hm?" She asked sleepily.

"Means I can marry whoever I want."

She blinked up at him, bleary-eyed but smiling. "You want to get married?"

"I think so, yes."

"Good." She snuggled down into his chest and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Me too," she sighed, and together they drifted off to sleep.

--=--

And across the city, a beautiful blonde young woman was making her way out of the gates, oilskin coat sealed up tight against the mist and the rain. As she sloshed barefoot through the mud churned up by the day's carts, someone called out.

"Angua!" She turned. A tall, wedge-shaped, red-haired young man in a brown cloak trudged up to her. A hint of purple robe peaked out from under the cloak, muddy and sodden from the walk. "Wait," he panted, drawing even with her. "Where are you going?"

She shrugged. "Away. You've done what we brought you here to do, there's no place for me left here. Egg and Tev are dead, the rest of the group buggered out as soon as they'd heard you'd been captured."

"No," he said earnestly. "You could stay."

"I killed those men in the Palace," she said coldly. "Doesn't that bother you?"

He shrugged. "I've seen you kill people before. And you didn't kill all of them." He looked to her, eyes pleading. "Angua, please. Please stay."

She smiled and ran the backside of her hand down his cheek. "What place does a werewolf have in a king's palace?"

"I don't, I mean . . ." He stuttered to a stop. "Please. I don't know what to do, I'm scared. Vimes doesn't like me, neither does the watch or the army. The only thing keeping me from dying is this prisoner who, well, it's really complicated but . . ." He realized he'd been grabbing her shoulders, and let his arms fall to his sides. "I – I just don't know what I'm going to do. Please, Angua, you _raised_ me. You're all I have now."

She chuckled. "Carrot, listen. Every little bird has to leave the nest sometime." She embraced him. Under the oilskin, he could feel she was naked. Her body heat burned against him, even through the leather and his own soaked clothes. She looked him over. "You have the prisoner, and that guard, and you have Vimes, whether you think so or not. It's your time to fly, Carrot." She gave him a peck on the cheek. "You're not alone as you think you are."

"Where will you go?" he asked again, rain streaming down his face.

"I don't know." She smiled and dropped the coat from her shoulders. She _was_ naked. "I won't be far," she assured him. She squeezed his shoulder. "And I will try to catch you, should you fall." And with that, she turned and left him stammering in the rain, coat in his arms. He looked to the coat, and heard the suction of air that signaled the Change, and when he looked up a golden wolf was trotting down the road, ears laid back against the rain and tail wagging with her gait. He stood there in the rain, getting soaked to the skin, waterproof coat in his arms, and watched her go.

--=--

And that, ladies and gents, is officially the end. Of course, it's kind of open-ended in most respects, so I'll be nice and write an epilogue. But yes, oh god, after almost six years this thing is clear off my conscience.

I might cry.

J/k. Yayyyyyy. Read and review please my lovelies.


	16. Epilogue

Author's Note: Posted in its naked unedited form before I go home from work because SOMEONE couldn't wait. Might be cleaned up later, who knows.

--=--

The door to the Rats' Chamber swung shut behind Carrot as he made his way back to his office. His head was pounding, and he was stiff and bored from the hour-long meeting. Behind him, Vetinari ducked out, followed closely by the Commander General. "Did that go well?" he asked Vetinari. The man paged through the notes he'd made throughout the meeting as they walked. At length, he shrugged.

"I admit I'm a little fuzzy on your remarks about the cabbage crisis," Vetinari said, flipping the notes open to a page occupied by scrawled quotes and a neatly-drawn chart. "How are you planning to solve the shortage?"

Carrot looked worriedly over his shoulder. "Import more. That's alright, isn't it?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Where from, sir?"

Carrot stopped walking, expression troubled. "Oh. Oh right. Huh." Vimes drew even with the king and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well now what?"

"Well," the Commander General snickered, "thankfully you have Skinny here to figure that out for you." Vetinari gave the Commander a cool look but didn't say anything. "Your highness, I have to bother you for one more minute before I leave. The ambassador from Nothingfjord - what sort of security would you like arranged?"

"Huh?" Carrot blinked and then thought back over the question. "Oh, I don't know. Is he a controversial figure right now?"

"She, sir," Vetinari corrected quietly.

"Yeah, she," Vimes went on. "Thanks, Skinny. No, she's not very prominent, and our intelligence doesn't indicate anyone in the city wants to harm her."

"I have a name, Commander," Vetinari said pointedly. "And the Teetotaler's League, in fact, has been quite outspoken against the vodka exports Nothingfjord has been sending."

Vimes blinked. "Really? Are they a threat?"

"They abstain from violence," Vetinari said dryly as he and Carrot resumed walking. Vimes snickered. "I'd order a level two on her, keep it subtle."

Vimes looked to Carrot's retreating back. "Sir?"

"Yes, Commander, whatever he says." He stopped walking suddenly. Vetinari, who had been walking backwards and flicking through his notes besides, backed into him. "Vetinari? Your wife is here." Vimes leaned to the side a little to have a better view of the impending hilarity. Vetinari had, after a short and highly entertaining dating period, married Dr. Leike, much to his own chagrin and her delight. They'd already had a daughter, and tales of Layla's pregnancy-induced mood swings were legend throughout the Palace. Vimes himself had heard of them and while they were hilarious, he was able to sympathize a least a little, though Sybil's term had been handled with, apparently, a little less screaming.

Of course, the doctor's second pregnancy was a lot less hilarious with her standing not ten feet away. Vimes and Carrot smiled at her warily while Vetinari steeled himself for what was about to come. Layla stood in the hall, arms crossed and resting on her swollen belly. She must be, what, seven months now? Vimes silently thanks the gods that Sybil had wanted to stop at one child, better that it was a son. "Hello, your highness," she said sweetly, her smile brittle. Carrot waved a little. "Is my husband with you?"

Slowly, as if she were a wild animal that might startle, Vetinari slipped out from behind the king. "Hello dear."

"I'm hungry," she snarled, the smile dropping off her face faster than Vimes could keep up with.

Vetinari nodded, expression bemused. "For what, exactly?"

"I need tacos. Where have you been?"

"Working," he answered, making his way to her side while the king retreated to the relative safety offered by the Commander General. "Remember? Thursday? City Council meeting?"

"What if I'm having the baby on a Thursday?" she snapped.

That was a trap, Vimes recognized. The young and unexperienced husband would roll his eyes or act exasperated or be sarcastic or some disaster, and then his wife, surfing on a tsunami of hormones, would either start crying or screaming. It was a perfect invitation for the ever-dreaded Nothing Fight. The tension mounted and Vimes and Carrot waited with bated breath for the answer. Vetinari put his arm around her and attempted to steer her away from the others. "Well I suppose I'll have to miss the meeting, won't I? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" Layla nodded and planted her feet. "Well then go back there, I'll bring you tacos."

"No," she said firmly. He raised an eyebrow. Vimes and Carrot exchanged apprehensive looks. "I want to go myself. I'm bored."

"Yes, but the midwife -"

"Sod her, I'm a doctor," Layla snapped. "You are coming with me - you need to eat more. Let's go."

"Layla, I have to go -" he caught sight of her expression and stopped. "I have to go nowhere. I have to go to the kitchens and get tacos with you." Vimes and Carrot breathed a collective sigh of relief when she smiled. Vetinari looked around. "Where's Jackie?"

"She's with her tutor."

Vetinari's eyebrows rose, very slowly. He paused, considered his word choice and went on cautiously "What happened to the nanny? And what is our three year-old learning from a tutor?"

Layla narrowed her eyes. "You don't think it's a good idea?"

"No," Vetinari said hurriedly, following her lead as she turned around and started toward the stairs. "I'm genuinely curious." As the two of them passed Vimes and Carrot he handed his sheaf of notes to the king. "Third pile from the left," he muttered.

"Good luck," Carrot said quietly, as Layla went on about how Jackie was in her formative years and if she didn't learn certain things _right now_ she would never be able to function as a productive member of society. The two of them turned the corner and eventually Layla's voice faded. Carrot looked to Vimes and shrugged. "It's all a closed book to me." Vimes patted him on the arm.

"Treasure that, lad." He adjusted his helmet and turned to leave. "Sir, if I may, I'd like to add that the ambassador from Nothingfjord is about your age, but much more politically experienced."

"Oh." Carrot looked puzzled. "Is that good? Or bad?" He waved the notes Vetinari had handed him. "Vetinari gave me a file to look over before I go in to the meeting so I would know what to say, so I should be fine, right?" He raised his eyebrows when Vimes gave him a meaningful look. "What?"

"She's also single."

Carrot cocked his head. "Does that matter?"

Vimes looked the boy over. He'd grown up to think that ruling Ankh-Morpork required a sharp and suspicious mind. And, to be honest, Carrot _was_ sharper than he let on. But in some departments he was _so_ painfully oblivious. Then the Commander smiled and made his way back to the stairs. "It matters if you think it does."

Carrot looked over the illegible notes Vetinari had handed him and, as usual, was unable to make either heads or tails of them. He tucked the sheaf under his arm as he walked back to his office, whistling as he went.

--=--

Historian's Note: King Carrot I lived to be 75 years of age and was tremendously popular as a monarch. He was never married and never produced a legitimate heir. In his will, he provided for his peaceful succession: he was succeeded by an elected monarch, Queen Eula Bruun of Nothingfjord. During and after her ascension to power rumors swirled that she was the illegitimate daughter of King Carrot and former Nothingfjord ambassador Gierhild Bruun, but sufficient evidence has never been found to prove Eula was not a legitimate child of Gierhild and her husband Sigar.

Commander General Vimes died of a heart attack while on a foot pursuit at the age of 68. He was survived by his wife, Sybil, and their son, Sam.

Havelock Vetinari, King Carrot's butler, secretary, head clerk and advisor died of natural causes at age 73, 6 years after retiring from government service to Genua, and two years following the death of his wife. He was survived by their seven children and 12 grandchildren.

--=--

THE END AT LONG LAST

Read and review, my lovers. :3


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